


Supplemental Equipment Maintenance

by subtropicalStenella



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alien Biology, Coming To Terms With New Kinks, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forced Orgasm, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oviposition, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Space YouTube Tutorials, Technically Not A Dick, Tentacle Dick, Tentacles, Wet & Messy, Xenophilia, brojobs, force orgasm, if you know what i mean, so much porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: Fuck. So. Togrutan… whatsit. Heat. That's a real thing. He owes Fives an apology, and himself an education, so he can find out what she needs and not make a complete idiot out of himself.And… maybe…





	1. Good Intentions

He has every fucking  _ right  _ to be worried. Especially since no one will tell him anything beyond Mission Pertinent Information.

His Commander’s health is pretty fucking Mission Pertinent, fuck you very much.

Shit started to go south when they got the timeline for the (latest) completely idiotic Undercover Agent Super Secret Spy Fuckery mission, this time involving the 212th, the 501st  _ and  _ the 327th, for some reason. Naturally, Generals Kenobi and Skywalker were  _ delighted _ and immediately began scheming like a couple of tank-wet cadets. General Secura just sighed resignedly, rubbing the back of her neck. Commander Tano took one look at the proposed disguises and immediately pitched what would turn out to be the first of several completely justified, indignant screaming fits.

“There's  _ male  _ strippers too, y’know!”

General Kenobi had immediately agreed and volunteered. Arguably he did so just to make Senator Mireen  _ intensely  _ uncomfortable, (as he deserved, the bigot) but Cody's muttered “Oh for fuck’s sake don't  _ encourage  _ him!” into the private comms indicated he was  _ completely  _ serious.

Anyone that tried to argue that said costume and plan weren't  _ that bad  _ got The Look from General Secura, who had a  _ lot  _ to be furious about on this particular subject. An entire cultural history.

The killing blow had been the eventual gentle suggestion that if the commercial exploitation of the feminine form was  _ really  _ so trivial, perhaps they'd like to invite General Unduli to the party, tell her to tart herself up. It was incredibly satisfying to watch a handful of (coincidentally, entirely male) senators and Jedi eat corvid.

He started getting concerned when he overheard the second screaming fit, this one a howling chorus with her Master, who is shouting her down about something that  _ he _ says is  _ too dangerous. _

She's screeching that the timeline of the mission is too important to sideline for a “biological inconvenience” because they wouldn't get another opportunity like this.

He's yelling that catching a few (a  _ few _ ) corrupt Senators aren't worth “artificially altering, accelerating and amplifying” her “cycle”, which they both know puts her body through “utter hell” in the first place. Bonus points for alliteration.

A few things had partially clicked there. The mission timeline must coincide with her next growth phase, which, if the last one was any indication,  _ would  _ be hell, especially so soon after the last. She'd been laid up for days with muscle spasms and bone aches and nausea and a host of other issues that were somehow considered  _ routine _ for her species. Togruta didn't grow at a steady rate, but in fits and starts that slowly tapered off in intensity as they aged. Needless to say, it had been quite a shock the first time the 501st experienced it, when she came back from the medbay four inches taller and a lot stripier.

Enough of them had needed to be reassured that it was  _ normal  _ that there'd been a bloody  _ briefing  _ on it, because  _ no, _ she hadn't acquired and subsequently taken a dive into a Kaminoan grow-tube in a cracked-brain effort to catch up with their height and bulk. Unsurprisingly, once normalcy had been established, a betting ring started on how tall the next phase would make her. Favors and contraband trinkets and datachips of music or cinema or pornography and fuck only knew what else started shuffling around the barracks within minutes of Commander Tano increasing her caloric intake. (It was slightly terrifying how much food that woman could put away when she had an impending phase. (Slightly  _ more  _ terrifying was  _ what  _ she could and  _ would _ eat when she got going. He knew for a fact that she'd caught and consumed a live coppi lizard while on an overlong patrol.))

Besides the unusually frequent arguments, the next few days seem fairly routine. The Commander spends more time than not in the mess hall, resulting in the usual eating contests. Not between individuals, of course, they're all still rationed. It's about beating her own records, to the delight and awe of her men. How many days rations can or will she consume in a single sitting, what percentage of her own body mass. More often than not, the boys break out the  _ good  _ stuff for her. Sweets and delicacies they've mysteriously acquired and hoarded that they hand off to her because they love her and she needs it more than they do (even if she insists otherwise). If she's not eating, she's sleeping, processing and storing the extra energy almost as fast as she consumes it, her headtails growing fat and sleek, more like Master Ti’s, the colors richer. (Almost 501st Blue, which they all love).

According to Kix, that's how they're  _ supposed  _ to look, thick and plush as a sleen tail, wider in the middle with stored fat and pointed tips, but their Commander runs herself hard and it's difficult to be an apex predator in a warzone where you can't eat the corpses. (He's sincerely hoping she was joking when she told him that, but, again, _ live lizard _ .)

But then there's argument number three, featuring Generals Kenobi, Skywalker and Secura,  _ again _ , with Commander Tano growling to the ceiling that it's “nothing serious”, that it's just “easier” with help, and who the hell else is she supposed to ask? Him? Master  _ Kenobi?! _

Who shrugs easily and says, “If you would like. It wouldn't be any trouble. I've assisted in such matters before,” in that Entirely Too Casual tone he likes to use when he  _ knows  _ his former Padawan is about to fly off the handle, and the best way to steer him away from the edge is to drop some mortifying personal bombshell on his head. Like. Well. That, apparently.

“You  _ what?! _ ”

“You  _ are  _ aware that Master Ti and I were at the Temple at the same time, yes? And that this  _ is  _ a common experience among Togrutan women?”

Commander Tano gives a suitably sidelined General Skywalker an intensely satisfied smirk and an emphatic “There, you see?!” gesture.

“But she  _ is  _ your Padawan, and if you're truly concerned that Master Secura won't be able to provide sufficient aid, and Ahsoka--”

“What? No!  _ Ugh _ .”

Commander Tano tilts her head contemplatively at General Kenobi, which doesn't appear to help General Skywalker's mood any, then wrinkles her nose. “That miiiight be a bit awkward, after, honestly.”

“I’d like to think that at least some of us can be mature adults about this,” General Kenobi, continues, shrugging. “And we're running out of people she trusts to see her that vulnerable, Anakin.”

“Not that it's even his decision in the  _ first  _ place,” General Secura remarks, in tones of reminding someone something for the umpteenth time.

Ahsoka stands a little straighter at that, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest. “I could still talk to Rex.”

“Talk to me about what?” he asks, trying not to look like he's been eavesdropping for the last twenty minutes.

“ _ Nothing, _ ” General Skywalker snaps, looking over his shoulder.

“Sir, yes sir,” he growls, and salutes, turning on his heel.

General Skywalker eventually apologizes, trying to explain that he overreacted because he was worried about his Padawan, which lead to argument number  _ four _ , and him shouting into  _ General Skywalker's  _ shocked face that of  _ course  _ he's worried about Ahsoka, they  _ all  _ were, and no one would tell him a fuckdamn thing, what was going on, why this time was different, why they were all so  _ fucking  _ scared and confused. And Skywalker just… stumbled over reassurances, telling him it really wasn't that bad, it's just complicated, she'll be fine--

And he ends up storming off before his General can finish, to blow a few dozen rounds on the firing range and try to calm the hell down because she  _ trusted _ him and she wanted his help and felt  _ safe  _ with him and and and

Fuck it. He's going to her anyway.

Not right then, obviously. Not when he's still hurt and angry and a lot of other things, but he passes the word down to the rest of the boys that the Commander is going through a rough patch and wanted their support, and a few days later he has a small duffle bag over his shoulder, packed with sweets, Togrutan-specific painkillers, hot-and-cold packs, well-wishes scribbled on bits of flimsi, and the latest issue of  _ Apocalypse Officers  _ (which thankfully didn't feature Captain Sex this week). He'd thought about getting her started on  _ Sex and Candy  _ but that one was harder to get through the censors reliably, so he convinced Jesse to bribe NJ to talk to some of his FlyBoy buddies in the 327th, both of whom had dated one of their Captains, who knew the Medic assigned to the unit of the trooper who wrote  _ NonRegulation Maneuvers,  _ and eventually managed to get an early release of the next chapter for probably more blackmarket cred than he's ever spent on something for himself.

He also had a hot, vacuum-sealed thermos from Kix tucked under one arm, which he was assured contained thirty-eight different homeworld-imported vitamin and nutrient supplements she needed, an insanely high protein content, and a base stock of something he was pretty sure was blood but consciously chose not to ask about.

He lets himself into her suite. He knows the passcode by heart, but then, they all do (no point in handprint or retinal scanners with a literal army of clones, they’d had to go old school with security). She's told them to come to her if they needed anything, and she knew they all felt the same. As far as he was concerned, it worked backwards too. If she needed something, he would go to her with it. He's glad he does. He can hear her as soon as the  door hisses quietly open, and he makes a note to find out who finally fixed the usual irritating screech so he can thank them.

Her suite isn't so much a suite like the Generals’ as a repurposed office, with the foyer turned into a small, cramped sitting-room slash study slash kitchen slash multipurpose area, with the office itself turned into a tiny bedroom. He stacks his burdens carefully on the small desk slash kitchen table and winces when a soft moan through the half open door spirals up into a strange, fluted whistle. Fuck's sake, she's never had it that bad before, her breathing ragged and shallow between low, quiet moans and the sounds of her writhing and shifting around to find some comfortable position, the low buzzing noise she made when she was in  _ real  _ pain a constant background hum rather than the occasional burst. That settles it. If she ever has to do this acceleration thing again, he's going to be right up there telling her it's a stupid idea.

“Shhh… It's alright, little one, this part is almost over,” General Secura murmurs, and he makes a note to thank  _ her  _ too. Profusely.

“ _ H-h-hharder--” _

_ What. _

He stops dead as a bit of motion in the mirror catches his attention, reflecting the view he can't see through the half-open bedroom door. A tangle of slender, warm rusty-gold limbs and the tip of a  _ dark _ blue-flushed headtail sprawled loosely across General Secura's letheris-clad lap, half on and half off the bed, tangled in the white, standard-issue sheets. The General's long, pale-blue fingers and hands are a sharp contrast to Commander Tano’s skin-- especially now that her colors are so dark and rich with health--both of them moving slowly between Commander Tano's thighs, mostly out of visual behind the soft curves of her ass. He swallows roughly as one hand shifts to firmly push-and-withdraw a thick, slick-shining length of gold silicone back and forth into her. Well. That's the source of the strangely rhythmic moans, and the soft, wet noises he's only  _ now  _ registering, far, far too late.

“Mhn… One more, I think?” General Secura muses idly, and there's a flat, metallic  _ click  _ that makes the buzzing tick up in frequency, the Commander's hips tilting up on another one of those soft, almost  _ musical  _ moans as what he can see of her spine curves sharply. The sounds--which clearly aren't  _ pained  _ noises, aren't enough to cover the splatter of rather a lot of fluid hitting the floor.

He very badly needs to not be here, suddenly incredibly,  _ painfully  _ glad he'd kitted out. The original intent was for her, because she needed a feeling of safety and security and it didn't get much more secure than an armored clone Captain at her door. Now he's just relieved no one will be able to see that he's leaving his Commander's quarters and walking down the hall with a dick hard enough to cut glassteel. At least everything made sense now. Why everyone was being so secretive, why Generals Kenobi and Skywalker spanned the scale between practical efficiency and hysterical embarrassment, while Commander Tano just seemed  _ annoyed. _

He'd  _ heard  _ of Togrutan mating cycles, obviously, but he'd written it off as pornographic exaggeration, rumormongering, and/or someone carrying the usual cadet-crush on Master Ti out  _ way  _ too far.

Yeah, _sure_ , the females went completely sex-crazy a couple times every Standard year, to the point of locking themselves away with their chosen mate(s) for marathon fuckfests that lasted for  _ days at a time.  _ Keep dreaming, Fives. Maybe write it down, you'll make some scratch on the holonovel market. Dumbass.

Empty briefing room on the left oh thank fuck. He ducks inside, disengaging the door and putting his back against it, so that no one can--haha--do what he almost did to Commander Tano oh fuck. Not that he's going to  _ do  _ anything except slide shakily down to his ass on the floor. And maybe loosen the buckles on his cod a little, just enough to let some of the pressure off. He's already got a pretty decent curve down there, no reason to get  _ bent. _

Fuck. So. Togrutan… whatsit. Heat. That's a real thing. He scrubs a hand over his face, settling his elbows on his upraised knees. He owes Fives an apology, and himself an education, so he can tell the difference between phases, find out what she needs and not make a complete idiot out of himself. 

And… maybe…

 

_ I can still talk to Rex _

 

One thing at a time, fuckssake. That's not helping the armor situation. What  _ will _ is research. There's a reason he never made medic quals, the sims and texts bored him completely brainless, wouldn't stick, and everyone’s been treating this more or less like a medical procedure, so there's procedural guidelines.

Getting past the firewalls to the main holonet is little more than muscle memory in his thumbs by now, a series of strings of code periodically updated in encrypted mass emails by the slicing guys (Seriously, train clones to hack into the magical world of the Holonet and expect them to  _ not  _ share? Idiots.)

Alright, looks like he wasn't entirely wrong. Female Togruta don't necessarily go  _ crazy  _ with lust, but the need to mate becomes as necessary as food or sleep, both of which become increasingly necessary as the female's body produces its clutch of six to ten eggs.

Eggs. Shit. Uhm. Alright then.

And she'd been right, apparently it's perfectly possible to get through a heat on one's own (given that the onset of the first for her would have been years ago, she undoubtedly already has) but it's easier with assistance. (Obviously. Especially if it does go on for hours or days. Everyone gets wrist cramps eventually.) Physical stimulation is the main requirement for the ovulation phase, and… apparently that's when fertilization happens, so the male requirement is fairly obvious.

A  _ lot  _ of fertilization. That's. That means a lot of...

 

Right. Moving on.

 

The second phase is more difficult, without… a partner or mate that is “supportive” and “receptive” and while “physical compatibility or viability are not essential” they are preferred, the same with emotional connection, both of which make the implantation phase more efficient, fulfilling and satisfying.

The  _ what  _ phase?

... This isn't helping. This is just. Confusing. The diagrams aren't helping either. Well. Sort of. He knows what to expect (to some extent) but not what to... Y'know. Do with any of it. How it works.   
  
There's a series of Extended Research links at the bottom of the article (which he gives up and just mostly skims, he's always been more of a visual and kinetic learner anyway, they all are) and he clicks the one with the highest ratings. ("Cute AND informative!" "Dude thank you so much for the product recs serious lifesaver" "OMG SO HELPFUL")

… it's porn.

There's a Togruta girl with her calves bound to her thighs, her arms tied together behind her montrals to the headboard with a… honestly an  _ artistic _ arrangement of looping knots in shiny bright pink rope that matches the striping on her montrals and headtails, incredibly vivid against the rich purple of her skin, the pearly white scales of her markings. The bright pink-and-white striped tip of her ovipositor waves gently from between her spread legs, above the clearly wet, swollen folds of her cunt. She looks… slightly annoyed, but happy about it, like she's indulging someone in something. 

The someone in question leans sideways into frame, a big smile on their face, adjusting something on the camera before they bounce onto the bed on their knees. They're wearing a short, tight tanktop that compresses their chest, and soft plaid shorts.

“I cannot  _ believe _ I agreed to this,” the Togruta grumbles, twisting her wrists in their bonds.

“Uh-huh. Remind me again which of us has the objectification and medical kinks?” her partner(?) teases, grinning. They have a gap in their front teeth.

What.

“Says the  _ Human _ guy who met me on an oviposition and cum-inflation fetish forummmph!”

A  _ what  _ forum?!

Her partner cuts her off by stuffing a wad of lace that matches her delicate, translucent bra into her mouth. “ _ Anyway _ , we have a new lecture to do!”

He can sort of see where the “cute” reviews are coming from.

“Okay, so, regulars, welcome back. New viewers, hi. I'm Tras, this is my girlfriend Lili.”

“Mmph,” Lili says, and waves a few fingers.

“Got something special for you this month. See, Lili here has just started a heat cycle, and because she's  _ amazing,  _ she agreed to play doctor with me and maybe show the rest of y’all folks who like screwing outside your species how to properly care for your ovulating Tog.”

Lili rolls her eyes. She seems much calmer than Commander Tano did, but then again, Lili probably wasn't screwing around with her biochemistry and this wasn't exactly a terribly arousing situation, kinks aside.

“So, as usual, first things first: Tools Of The Trade!”

There's a little musical fanfare, and he holds up a… wow, a very large, translucent purple but otherwise incredibly realistic human penis, and a sort of… wand-like device with a soft, fat bulb on the end. Tras rattles off names, make and model numbers, and he automatically memorizes the information. Out of habit, not interest. Obviously.

“So maybe you've got some incompatibility issues regarding Tab P and Slot V due to speciation, like you Zabraks and Mirialans, or maybe you're like me and there was a mixup at the metaphorical factory and they shipped you out with Some Assembly Required, or maybe everything is set up perfectly and you're ready to go. I don't care.  _ These--” _

He shakes his hands emphatically and the silicone penis wobbles comically. Lili snickers into her gag.

“--Are going to be your best friends.”

Lili nods.

“'But Tras!’ You're probably thinking, or yelling at your datapad like a weirdo. 'I don't need Marital Aids! I got a dick the size of your forearm and stamina like a bantha on glitterstim!’” Tras says, sarcastically deepening his voice for the character of his Audience.

“Well, good for you. I'm sure on a  _ normal  _ day, you can satisfy the hell out of your Tog,” he continues, and then leans into the camera, his face taking up the whole frame. He has a wide scattering of freckles across his nose that are almost invisible against his warm brown skin. “But I'm gonna tell you something, friend. Unless you can keep a stiffy going for a  _ minimum  _ of nine total hours out of thirty-eight?”

He leans in completely, his mouth against the lens like he's whispering into the viewer’s ear. “ _ You can't handle a Tog heat _ .”

And then he leans back again, sitting normally. “If you  _ can…  _ Uhm. Well. Call me?”

Lili nods  _ emphatically _ , and he finds himself muffling a snort of surprised laughter into his hand. This might actually have been a  _ good  _ idea. He can't help doing a little mental math, estimates of personal bests and averages, and honestly nine hours is a lot to ask of one man, even with the best of Kaminoan engineering.  _ However,  _ she does have a literal  _ battalion  _ of willing, able-bodied Troopers and ARCs who would be more than happy to help out. She had a good thing with Fives and Echo, and…

And fucking hell, he's an _asshole_ , because this is  _ not his decision.  _ She spent several days screaming mad at her  _ Master  _ for trying to control this whole disaster and he's sitting here organizing a potential  _ gangbang  _ without  _ any  _ input from her. (Besides which, she only mentioned him, and…

And fucking  _ focus _ , Rex. Tras is talking again, running two fingers under one of the looped ropes around Lili's thigh. Hopefully that's not  _ totally  _ necessary. On the one hand, it wasn't like he didn't keep several dozen meters of good quality, flexible line on his person as a matter of course, but on the other, it was thin, high-tension durasteel cable, not the soft, shiny stuff Lili was tied up with, and he knew for a fact that it could cause  _ nasty  _ cuts and rope burns. Tras helpfully offers the name of the company that produces it,  _ and  _ some recommended lengths for various binds, but if he wants more information on that he'll have to check out their other broadcasts.

Lili points off to the side, which doesn't make sense until he realizes she's breaking the fourth wall to point at the additional links outside the video frame. Clever. He starts to add the “Rope Bondage Basics For Beginners” link to his files for later, and reconsiders. Fuck's sake, Rex. Stop  _ strategizing  _ and just watch your educational holo like a normal person. Besides which:

“...  _ Totally  _ optional. Lili’s only tied up because one, she gets  _ really  _ squirmy after her third or fourth orgasm, and I don't want her to kick over the camera again,” Tras explains with a grin, and Lili indignantly grumbles something through her gag, glaring at the ceiling.

A bit of text appears across the bottom of the  screen:  _ Editor’s Translation: That was  _ one  _ time!  _ and he chuckles, finally relaxing a little against the barred door. This was good, he could handle this. Light, funny, informational and practical. Educational without being boring.

Tras scoots up the bed a little to nuzzle against Lili’s cheek, and it's adorable. He doesn't quite register the way Tras’ hand is skating down Lili's soft stomach until he grins and purrs against her montral. “And two, I want to make sure  _ everyone  _ can see the way your pretty little 'pos gets nice and thick for me.” 

 

Oh. Right. Still porn. 

 

Tras’ fingers dip into Lili's center, her ovipositor extending slightly with an audible slithering sound, framed and accented between the warm brown of Tras’ fingers spreading her slit open. 

 

Oh  _ shit. _

 

Muting that. Definitely muting that. Thank fuck for subtitles, because while Lili doesn't  _ look  _ like Commander Tano, the soft, sweetly musical sounds she makes when Tras slowly strokes his fingers up and down the edges of her slit, coaxing her ovipositor out over the back of his hand are entirely too familiar, and going to  _ haunt _ him.

Her tip flares open slightly, trailing more of the same lavender fluid that's starting to coat Tras’ fingers. He's had to shift his grip, encircling the significantly thicker base of Lili's ovipositor, stroking slowly, and he grins, pressing his forehead against the soft, rose-blushing curve of her montral, when she shudders violently and a whole lot  _ more _ ovipositor squirms out, convulsively wrapping around his wrist and visibly  _ squeezing. _

“Oh  _ fuck-- _ ”

He checks the audio, and shoves his fist against his mouth because yeah, that was  _ him _ , but no one, fucking  _ no one _ can blame him for imagining that happening around his dick.

 

_ (laughter) Babe, baby, come on, I can't-- (laughter) Babe you have to let go-- _

Oh. This... This is probably why General Secura was using both hands.

_ (Lili keening in G Flat) _

 

Tras has to pause and untangle his hand, Lili writhing against her bonds and keening piteously the entire time, the subtitles helpfully informing him that her vocal range is dancing up and down the entire C scale, interspersed with whimpers around her lacy makeshift gag. Eventually Tras gets his hand free, and carefully uncurls her ovipositor so he can stretch it out up to the soft ridge of her hipbone, holding it out of the way and mostly still. Only mostly. It writhes and squirms under his palm, fucking  _ undulating,  _ the tip wound around one of his fingers. Shit.  _ Shit.  _ That's. It's supposed to go  _ inside  _ her mate at some point, right? Does it still move like that when she's hilted? When she's pressed up against his ass, her strong slender hilt-callused fingers digging into his hips, her teeth in his shoulder, while she fucks him senseless? Tras. Does. Does  _ Lili _ do that to  _ Tras _ , he means.

Lili bucks her hips as Tras runs a fingertip on his free hand all the way down the length of her ovipositor, following one of the bright pink stripes that  _ so  _ strongly resemble the stripes on her headtails, all the way down into her slit, rubbing clearly torturous little circles around and around the underside of the root, right where it disappears into her slit. He explains in subtitles that this is one of the most sensitive spots on a Togruta, and that while a gentle touch is best at first, once she gets going, Lili  _ really  _ likes it when he pounds the absolute  _ hell _ out of her, making sure he’s angled to right here when he thrusts or, better still, she rides him and grinds down on him in circles, fucking herself on his cock.

 

_ (Lili moaning) _

_ Editor'sTranslation: Emphatic Affirmative _

 

She shifts against the ropes, her hips chasing Tras’ hand when he won't do more than tease. He doesn't need the Editor to tell him she's begging, keening,  _ pleading  _ with Tras to give her more. He can see it in the frantic motion of her hips and the smug grin that threatens to wrap around Tras’ head until the top of his skull falls off.

Tras  _ finally  _ pushes two fingers into Lili’s slit, making her throw her head back until her horns rest on her arms, straining at the ropes, lavender soaking Tras’ hand. He flips the datapad aside, burying his face in his arms, roughly dragging his hands through his hair. He can't watch this. Not. Not like this. He sighs and laces his hands over the back of his neck, elbows on his knees and head hanging between them.

He also can't  _ go  _ anywhere like this, can't expect to function. Not comfortably. He's so hard it  _ hurts _ , especially curled up like this, his armor pressing and pinching, but he's not going to fix the problem the easy way.

And it would be  _ so  _ easy. Shove his hand under his cod, into his blacks and turn pink to 501st blue, purple to warm, dark gold. Think about her sweet voice gone thready and pleading

 

_ H-h-hharder  _

_ H-h-hharder _

_ H-h-hharder,  _

 

_ Harder, Rex, please--! _

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

He sits up, letting his head rest against the wall, breathing through his nose to steady himself, tightly lacing his hands between his knees, away from anything important for a long, tense moment before he taps his wrist comm.

“Codes. You busy?”

“Not especially. Was going to hit the mats. You okay?”

“Just need to blow off some steam.”

“Sure. Officers’ in ten?”

  
Yeah, he can probably rearrange himself enough to be able to walk by then. Maybe letting Cody kick the shit out of him will knock some sense back into his head.


	2. Helping Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cody sighs fondly, rolling onto his side. “I'd say you're fucked, but that's the opposite of your problem.”
> 
> “Oh, _fuck you,” _he snaps, and goes to punch him.__

Due to some Senators not understanding how Clone Hierarchy actually worked, the Commanders had private  _ everything _ . Private sleeping arrangements, private dining hall, private freshers, private  _ gym _ , all of which were significantly better quality than Standard, like the Commanders thought they were somehow  _ better  _ than their men. Which was stupid, and just went to show how little the brass actually knew about how their army functioned. Having some small unique trait was often appealing. (See: Every guy that ever wanted to screw him stupid just because he'd ended up with a twisted bit of code in whatever determined hair color.) Being  _ designed _ different, deliberately Other in an army, a culture, where everyone looked the same unless they  _ chose  _ otherwise? More often than not, that  _ sucked.  _ Every Commander he could think of threw the Privileges Of Rank right out the airlock and slept/etc with their men, which meant the Officers’ Quarters were usually vacant unless someone needed  _ real  _ privacy. Great places for a painful discussion, a good screw, a bad breakdown, a real fight. 

 

Cody takes one look at him and  _ sighs _ , his scarred eyebrow cocked, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he watches him strip out of his kit, slapping the pieces onto the significantly fancier  _ armor stand  _ near the door with more force than is entirely necessary. Cody doesn't say anything when he  _ deliberately  _ ogles at him as he breaks his kit down, kicks his boots and liners off.

See, Cody? Cody's perfectly fine to get hot and bothered over. Just under ninety kilos of muscle packed onto a two-meter frame in nothing but the lower half of his blacks, with a little extra fuzz peeking out above his waistband up to his navel (not to mention the extra Command Stock packed  _ under  _ the waistband). The same dark bronze skin everyone had criss-crossed over the upper chest on one side with pale “I should be dead” scars  _ no one _ had or wanted, where they'd discovered that no matter how good your armor was, even a glancing, mostly-over-your-shoulder hit from the payload of a Sep rocket launcher would fuck you  _ right  _ up. The facial scarring was the main draw, everyone knew about that and it was sexy as hell, but supposedly his favorite way to shock-and-awe shinies was letting them poke the piece of chestplate still stuck in the muscle under the big sunburst shrapnel-and-burn scar near his bent collarbone.

Cody tilts his head a little, watching him peel out of his top and fling it off to one side as he steps up onto the mats. “Well, you look like shit.”

Thanks Codes.

Cody sighs again, and shakes his head. “You want to talk about it, or you want me to beat it out of you?”

“Just shut my damn head off for a while,” he growls, and settles into a low, easy half-crouch.

Cody shrugs, and comes out swinging, closing the distance hard and fast, and he can finally  _ breathe.  _ Finally stop thinking and lose himself in the hard slap of hands and fists and knees and elbows on flesh, air tearing through his lungs, focus on just staying alive. Doing what he was built to do, without the distractions of things he wants and is too scared to go after, because he was trained to believe he didn't deserve anything but an ugly death at the metal hands of a Separatist machine.

By the fifth time Cody throws him down onto the mats--an overly dramatic suplex that had his heels kicking in the air before they both toppled over backwards--and drives the air out of his lungs, he's more or less stable enough to talk. Mostly because any energy he had is blown out an airlock, and doing anything more than breathing takes too much effort. Being an anxious, overanalytical wreck is basically impossible.

Thanks Codes.

“Figured out what's wrong with Commander Tano,” he says. No fanfare, no finesse, no dancing around. It's Cody.

“The whole accelerated growth spurt sleenshit, right?”

“It's not a growth phase.”

Cody leans up a little in his periphery to look over at him, visibly concerned. “Shit, is she okay?”

He snorts and continues staring at the ceiling. “Oh yeah, she's fine _. _ Just great.” 

“Then what--”

“Did you know that female Togruta go into heat a few times a year, and physically  _ need _ to spend something like three days having an absolute shitwhack of aggressive, athletic sex?” 

“That's a real thing?”

“Yes.”

“... oh.”

Cody lies back down. It's the appropriate response.

“Explains why Skywalker was such a basket case,” Cody says after a minute. “Poor repressed bastard.”

He reaches up and over his head to slap Cody lightly in the chest. “Cut him some slack, he never had a Qui-Gon teach him how to deal with the whole Attachments thing properly. Kid throws his whole heart into everything and Kenobi's flying blind half the time.”

“Kenobi, who apparently got with Master Shaak Ti.”

“Yes.”

“ _ Damn. _ ”

“Yes.”

They both lie there for a minute in envious silence, because  _ everyone  _ who was even remotely sexually, romantically or even just aesthetically inclined towards women had a cadet-crush on the beautiful, kind, elegant Jedi Master Shaak Ti. Couldn't help it. Probably partially due to lack of options, but really, come on, it was  _ Shaak Ti. _

“So… How did  _ you _ figure all this out?” Cody asks slowly. He can feel that he's being watched. He's going to sigh heavily, and keep staring at the ceiling.

“Went to deliver a care package from the boys. Damn near walked in on the Commander…  y’know. Taking care of the issue.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah. _Oops._ ” If his General was a _collection of half truths and hyperbole,_ Commander Cody was the master of understatement.

Cody drums his fingers on the mat, a tell that he's trying to figure out how to word something. He fidgets. “Didn't… Didn't you get into it with Skywalker about that? How she…ah... Wanted to talk to you about it?

Oh fuck, he still has to apologize for that.  _ Fuck.  _ Sorry sir, didn't realize I was telling you I'd be more than happy to screw your Padawan (who is essentially your little sister) into or over the nearest flat surface for three days straight. Bloody fucking stars.

“Yes.”

“So… Did you?”

“Did I  _ what _ ?”

“Lend a hand.”

“What?  _ No! _ ” he yelps, tilting his chin back to glare incredulously.

“Chickenshit.”

He reaches up again and pops Marshall Commander Cody of the 212th, the War Hero, in the tit again. Harder.

“ _ Ow,  _ fuck, right in the nipple,  _ shit. _ ”

“Serves you right, jackass. She's my  _ Commander.  _ My superior officer? A  _ Jedi? _ ”

The mats squeak as Cody shrugs, his sweaty shoulders sticking. “Never stopped me.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us are under General Obi-Fucking-Wan Kenobi.”

“Typically I'm on top of General Obi-Fucking-Wan Kenobi, not under, but whatever,” Cody corrects idly, shrugging again.

“ _ Not helping. _ ”

“I'm supposed to help?”

He groans aloud, roughly, repeatedly scruffing his hands through his hair as Cody sits up on his elbows. 

“Seriously, why not? Golden opportunity. You know she's interested, you're  _ obviously  _ interested. Go help a pretty girl out. Have fun.”

Because General Skywalker isn't the only one that throws his whole heart into everything, and he's pretty damn sure he can't keep this to just having  _ fun,  _ that's why _. _

“She already had help.”

Cody hisses through his teeth, wincing. “ _ Ouch.  _ Shit. I'm sorry, brother. We need to go break someone's legs?”

“It was General Secura.”

 

Silence.

 

“... Codes? Y--”

Cody slaps a hand over his mouth and half his face. “Shh.  _ Shhhhh. _ Just let me have this for a minute,” he says, eyes blissfully closed.

This time he outright punches him, hard enough to bruise, and Cody  _ laughs  _ through his wince.

“See? This is what I mean, you're obviously boots over bucket for her.”

“Laugh it up, shitkicker. Wait until I tell Bly.”

“Oof. Speaking of  _ repressed. _ Do  _ not  _ follow his example.”

“Noted,” he mutters, and lets his arms flop over his head.

Cody sighs fondly, rolling onto his side. “I'd say you're fucked, but that's the opposite of your problem.”

“Oh  _ fuck you, _ ” he snaps, and goes to punch him again, but Cody catches him by the wrist and slaps his hand back down onto the mat, shifting onto his knees to loom over him.

_ Hello. _

“Want to?” Cody purrs, smiling slyly like he already knows the answer and catching his other wrist to press him down into the foam padding.

Oh shit yes.

Cody leans down to kiss him, upside down. It's a little strange, but it’s a  _ lot _ sexy, so he goes with it, some part of him intensely relieved that normal shit still revs his engines. He's not hooked on sharp, venomous teeth and tentacles and headtails and fucking  _ eggs _ in his fucking  _ guts _ . He leans up a little desperately into the kiss, licking into Cody's perfectly fucking normal, sinfully hot mouth, his tongue sliding and pressing against another that is definitely not pointed, brushing against a hard palate that isn't hiding retracted fangs and fucking venom sacs.

“Wouldn't mind lending  _ you _ a hand,” Cody murmurs into the underside of his jaw, sucking a dark red mark into the hollow of his throat, working down to his collarbone. “Or a mouth.”

“ _ Fuck--” _

Cody smirks against his skin, scrapes his teeth over the bone as his hips start to shift and roll, his aching cock straining against his blacks. Sparring may have taken his  _ mind  _ off things, but other parts have been otherwise preoccupied.

“You think about that when you saw her? Getting your mouth on that? What she'd taste like?”

No, he hadn't, but now how can he  _ not _ ? Burying his face in the hollows of her throat, her montrals, her hips, her breasts, the lean hard-muscled plane of her stomach to breathe in the sharp, wild scent of her and following the pale-scaled lines of her markings with his tongue. Kissing her slow and hungry and deep until he tasted copper on her teeth. Letting her ovipositor wrap around his fingers while he licked and sucked the hotspot at her root the way Cody was working down his chest, bright vivid candy-striped sleek wet heaven in his hands.

Fuck, he's never going to be able to see her headtail markings the right way again, is he?

“Codes--” he rasps raggedly, starting to reach up. Normally he'd stay down even without Cody holding him, they've played that game enough for him to know the rules by heart, but this--he can’t--he  _ shouldn’t-- _

Cody laughs, and knocks his hands back down under his shins.

“Yeah, you probably didn't see much, did you? Hightailed it out of there so you wouldn't embarrass her, because fuck knows you're a better man than I am. But you could hear her, couldn't you?” Cody says, halfway down his stomach now and reaching up to palm his crotch through his blacks as he works. “Should I guess? She's not a screamer, I bet, not in the sack at least. Chatterbox, though. Does she talk? Say feels good, what she wants?”

She sings. She fucking _sings_ and she sounds like the hellish, hauntingly beautiful _things_ that the pilots say hide behind the stars. The ones that lure foolish, stupid men outside the safety of their ships into the sucking void of space, and convince them they can breathe in the endless nothing so long as they listen to the song.

“ _ Cody--” _

Cody chuckles again, and breaks the seal on his blacks, opens his mouth to say something else, and he can't take it, breathing too hard, too fast.

“ _ Dammit  _ Cody--” he snarls, and slaps the mats above his head twice, hard, tapping out.

Cody immediately rolls off him and to the side, hands off, letting him breathe.

“Codes, I'm trying--I… Damn it Cody, if I wanted to yank my own chain about what I saw and heard and how fucked in the head it's making me, I'd have done it,” he growls, heels of his hands pushed against his closed eyes until little ribbons of color start to dance around. “And I can't, I shouldn't, because she is _ not  _ enjoying this whole awkward catastrophe. She's forcing herself through it, y’know. Probably a grand old time on a normal day but she's putting herself through biochemical manipulation hell For The Republic.”

And all this stop-and-start is going to kill  _ him,  _ the ache building low in his guts telling him if he keeps this up, he's going to give himself a nice case of five-oh-ones below the belt.

“Understood,” Cody says, and he can't help a relieved sort of sigh, letting his arms fall back again. “You are  _ definitely  _ the better man, Rex.”

“Admittedly, being the better man is fucking  _ awful. _ ”

Cody huffs a fond laugh and stands up, offering him a hand and easily hauling him to his feet with a firm grip on his forearm. He doesn't let go, instead pulling him into a small, narrow space between a tall stack of extra mats and a taller equipment cabinet. There's no need, they're alone and no one who could catch them with enough authority to reprimand either of them would give a shit.

But Cody pushes him back into the wall anyway, crowding him into the space until they're both out of any eyeline of the door, hiding them from the world. He groans aloud, settling under Cody's hands, sliding his arms up over the big Commander’s broader shoulders. Cody gets a hand over his mouth again, keeping him quiet, and he kisses it gratefully. This was good, this was  _ normal _ , this is how clones did it,  _ they _ did it, back before he had too much authority and too much responsibility and too much  _ freedom _ for a mutant Standard stock with a bad habit of being bossy and sneaking Command simulations onto his roster, when _ Unapproved Physical Activities  _ could get them in a  _ world  _ of trouble.

He bites back a moan as Cody finishes pulling his blacks open, briskly stroking his leaking cock a few times. He ruts against Cody's stomach while Cody unseals his own blacks just enough to get his cock out, like he might need to get dressed again in a hurry, bodies pressed together, skin-hungry and legs tangled. His breath saws raggedly through his nose as Cody spits into his palm, fists both their cocks in his hand and leans in close, knuckles rubbing against his stomach.

Cody's other hand curves around the back of his head, and he buries his face between his arm and Cody's neck, bottom lip between his teeth to keep quiet, something he hasn't done or needed to do in  _ years. _

“Better?” Cody murmurs rhetorically into his ear, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, twisting his wrist  _ just so _ , so his palm rubs over the head of his cock, smearing precum over them both. He nods into Cody’s shoulder and finally stops fucking  _ thinking _ , mashing his face against Cody's chest, occasionally licking and biting at the lines of ropy scars bracketed by the tiny pinprick dots left over from the surgical staples used to put him back together, the strange, harder bits where they'd used the insanely tough glue meant to seal up cracks in their armor, because they didn't  _ get  _ surgical gear in the field at first, and Kix had gotten creative until they could get him to an actual base camp medic.

Cody doesn't fuck around, jacking him with short, firm pulls, rolling his thumb over the tip, the arm around his shoulders holding him close, Cody's body pushing him back against the wall, blocking him off from everything. As wound up as he his, as he's  _ been _ for fuck knows how long, he's not going to last, but that doesn't  _ matter  _ here, not now, with his ragged breaths muffled in Cody's shoulder, pressed to tight between the actual wall and the wall of muscle that is Cody to move, to reciprocate, to do anything but  _ feel.  _

“ _ Shit,  _ Codes,” he mutters, half of it lost in the hollow of Cody's throat. “Codes,  _ fuck _ , Cody I'm gonna cum--”

He can feel Cody smile against the side of his head, cheek pressed to his temple, breath hot in his hair. Cody knows him well enough not to change anything up when he's this close, just keeps working him over with that short twist of his hand, the side of his thumb catching the head on every stroke until he snaps, spilling over Cody's knuckles and onto his stomach.

Cody lets him go, lets him lean back with his head against the wall, lets him catch his breath as he continues jacking himself, faster now, his hand slick with the cum splattered on his blacks.

He catches his second wind, and Cody moans quietly as he gets his hands on his face, in his hair, pulling him down the short bit needed to kiss him, deep and hungry.

“ _ Fuck,  _ you're so fucking good to me, Cody,” he hisses, pulling at his shoulders, pushing him up sideways against the stack of mats, “C’mere--”

He slaps Cody's busy hand aside, taking over as he kisses down his jaw, his throat, drags his teeth over the mess of scars in his shoulder before he hits the deck on his knees. He gets another moan when he gets farther down, trailing rough kisses over the thick muscles of his stomach, and then--

“Oh  _ fuck,  _ that's hot--”

\--when he licks a stripe of cum off the ridge of Cody's hip, off a different sort of scar entirely, the mark from Wolffe's bite, and then another smear in the crease of his thigh, stroking his cock all the while.

Which, also, yes Cody,  _ obviously _ , that's why he did it, and continues to do so, licking his abdomen clean before moving onto his cock. That's something of a lost cause. Every slow, caressing stroke of his tongue, every hot, sucking kiss along Cody’s shaft, makes a bit more precum dribble out and smear across his chin.

Cody threads his clean hand through his mutie-pale hair, cupping the back of his head and guiding his open mouth onto his cock. Cody is big, and  _ thick,  _ and he's never gotten the hang of deepthroating, but Cody has never minded him using a hand to assist while he sucks him off and certainly doesn't now. Now he's muffling his own moans in the crook of his elbow, hips rolling. Cody needs the gag more than he had, he's always been loud in the sack, and groans aloud when he pulls back, looking down with wide, pleading eyes.

He smirks around the two of his own fingers he's pushed into his mouth, and Cody groans again, shifting to widen his stance so he can drag Cody's blacks down a little more, tucking his wet fingers between Cody's legs. There's a soft  _ thud  _ as the back of Cody's head hits the mats behind him and another muffled moan. He sucks the head of Cody's cock, stroking up and down all the thick length as he presses one fingertip into his ass, just enough to tease, just that little bit more to break him, make him come deep in his mouth in hot, thick pulses.

He pulls off Cody's softening cock with a grin, licking his sore bottom lip as the Commander sags slowly down to the floor with him, slinging an arm around his shoulders again and pulling him against his side.

“You good?” Cody murmurs, resting his chin on his head.

He snorts softly, and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “Yeah, think I'll be alright.”

Cody nods and huffs out a relieved sigh. “Good.”

 

\--

 

He is alright. Mostly. Until he's alone with his thoughts in his bunk late in the night and sleep won't come, not without whispers and hints at dreams he shouldn't have.

He's all but given up on sleep entirely, flipping through a requisitions report in hopes of boring himself to sleep, when his datapad cheeps quietly with a File Received notification.

Why the hell is the Coruscant Guard messaging him at 200 hours? Messaging him with… shit, 35gigs of stills and video? The fuck?

 

_ Cody said you might need a hand. _

_ \-- Fox _

 

He taps the first thumbnail, and  _ immediately _ closes it with a pained groan, but not before he he catches a high-resolution flicker of long, slender, cherry-red legs wrapped around broad warm-bronze shoulders, just the right shade to be a clone (which is impossible, right?) and a bit of grey-and-white striped headtail.

_ Shit. _

He is  _so_ fucked.


	3. Additional Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone spilled plot on my smutfic and even Rex gets bored with it. But hey, the xeno is back!

He’s not going to… uhm...  _ utilize  _ the files Fox so helpfully sent him. He's going to finish this report or fall asleep. Or… finish three other reports and not sleep. And. Organize the… eight videos, thirty-seven short clips, four extended photoshoots and fifty-two assorted loose stills into a series of folders, (buried in a lot of other folders disguised as other things, because he's not  _ stupid _ ). He  _ should  _ erase the whole lot, but…

But he's not going to be able to  _ not  _ think about her, about what he saw and  _ didn't  _ see and… look maybe if he  _ knows  _ what's going on he'll be able to stop  _ obsessing  _ over it. If he just gets this insane fetish out of his system.

Except it's not a fetish. It's  _ her.  _ It's just added details to thoughts--fuckssakes, Rex, admit it:  _ fantasies _ \--he's had for a long time, since he noticed that his Commander, his friend, was fifty-five kilos of whipcord and detonite that fit perfectly under his chin and purred in her sleep. 

She’s sharp teeth and sharp elbows and sharper wit that  _ should _ feel like holding a bag of coat hangers but instead she softened disconcertingly easily in his arms, tucked up against his chest and huddled between him, Hardcase and Kix, because for once  _ they  _ came out on the better side of equipment, with their enviro-sealed cold weather armor versus her layers and layers of robes. All three of them tangled under a thermal blanket around her, chestpieces stripped off to share body heat without compromising most of their enviro-shielding. Kix monitoring her vitals and Hardcase keeping her laughing with stupid jokes while Fives, Echo and the rest of them dug them out of the damn cavern collapse, because that's what caverns  _ did  _ on Hoth. Stand perfectly stable for  _ hundreds  _ of years until “Y’know what, actually, fuck you fifteen guys in particular.”

And him curled up around and behind her, his vambraces, rerebraces and pauldrons off too so he won't pinch her in the hard joints when he wraps his arms around her stomach, under three out of five layers of robes with all her headtails tucked between their bodies because Kix is saying shit like “frostbite to the montrals can lead to hearing impairment” and Commander Tano is cheerfully adding stories about a guy she heard about that got the tips of his frozen right  _ off _ and it's making him a little crazy. She is  _ more  _ than capable of taking care of herself. He's seen her throw a damn SBD  _ with her mind _ , and she's thrown  _ him  _ around the sparring ring more than once with nothing but a little proper application of leverage but he can't shake this  _ ache  _ in his chest that screams  _ protect her _ . Or the ache significantly farther south in parts of him that noticed that the sleek muscled curve of her ass was just as incredibly plush as it looked  _ and _ fit perfectly into the hollow of his hips.

 

… Anyway he didn't use any of the files or even jack off at all, because he has  _ some  _ measure of self control, unlike  _ some people: _

_ “Got more -- Fox” _ had been another 10gigs, delivered with an entirely-too-cheerful beep of his datapad in the middle of a  _ briefing  _ for shit’s sake.

He'd tucked his datapad under the table to respond.

 

 _CT-7567: Do I even want to know how or why you have something like 50gigs of alien porn just LYING AROUND_ _to hand out to people_

 _CC-1010: u DONT?_ _im not even into xeno but look @ this shit_

 

One of those short clips pops up and plays on loop. Artsy black-and-white, a male Togruta in translucent black mesh panties, curled up on his side, shifting one of his headtails aside to more comfortably snuggle into an almost offensively soft-looking pile of pillows and bedding to better bedroom-eye the camera. It's almost enough for him to forget that Fox types like an asshole.

 

 _CC-1010: who WOULDNT_ _b dtf that?_

_ CT-7567: Pretty sure that means you're into xeno _

_ CC-1010: so what does that mean 4 u…? _

 

It means he's not taking  _ that _ bait. Asshole.

 

_ CT-7567: That one’s not even in  EITHER  filedump you sent. Fucking hell, how much porn do you HAVE? _

_ CC-1010: so u DID look @ them. _

 

Shit.

 

_ CT-7567: I'm blocking your signal. _

_ CC-1010: u can block me but u cant block the xeno~ _

 

Oh  _ fuck you,  _ Fox.

 

_ CT-7567: IT'S NOT THE XENO I JUST LIKE THE COLORS AND SHE'S REALLY PRETTY _

 

_ Fuck _ . 

 

_ CT-7567: OKAY FUCK THAT DOESN'T HELP _

_ CC-1010: lol put the shovel down _

_ CT-7567: Bite me. _

_ CC-1010: k _

 

A still this time, the profile face of a dark blue female with lots of gold jewelry draped over her plum-striped montrals, her forehead and cheeks. She's tilting her head back to expose her throat, mouth open wide to display her curved, fully extended fangs, her tongue curled upwards. It's highly artistic, elegant, and terrifyingly erotic in a way he can't explain.

 

_ CT-7567: BLOCKING.YOU. _

_ CC-1010: ull b back _

 

He’d sighed and leaned back in his chair, shifting slightly because the damn tailored trousers he's expected to wear for his so-called disguise wouldn't hide a damned thing. (Silk! Shiny blue-black synthsilk trousers and jacket!  _ Why?! _ The best he can do is wear a vest under his shirt for protection, because apparently even his nanoprene would “ruin the lines”) Not that he had anything to hide at the moment. Precaution.

“I thought we were supposed to be bouncers,” he’d said, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to not itch at his eyes and subsequently dislodge his contact lenses, they'd been awful enough to put in. 

“The job description is considered 'Security Detail’ in the social circle we're attempting to inflitrate,” General Kenobi answered, trimming the corners of his freshly dark brown-dyed beard into sharp, obnoxiously pretentious points with a small pair of scissors he apparently just  _ kept on his person _ , which explained so much about his flawless aesthetic. “They like their staff to look intimidating in a physical  _ and _ a financial sense.” 

“Thus, the monkey suits,” Cody grumbled, pulling at his high shirt collar. “What kind of asshole thinks an  _ actual noose  _ is a good idea for a guard’s uniform?” 

General Secura had swayed up to him on her insanely tall shoes, able to look him dead in the eye as she began tying the length of  _ more  _ shiny black silk into a fat triangular knot at the base of his throat, the ends hanging down his chest, perfect for grabbing. 

“Cody, darling,” she murmured, sighing gently as she smooths the front of his crisply starched shirt. Somehow she had managed to do it without her breasts escaping from her precariously intertwined arrangement of more silk masquerading as a brassiere. (The whole “costume” was white, gauzy, and too fluttery to be of any use whatsoever. Everyone had very carefully looked at her face if they had to look at her at all, ever since one of the shinies on the door got himself a radiation burn from the sheer intensity of Bly's  _ Fucking say something, I dare you _ , glare.) Apparently the noose needs one last adjustment, one of her hands on the knot, the other on the slack. 

“Shut your dickholster,” she had said, without changing her tone in the slightest, and Cody made a  _ glrk! _ noise when she sharply tightened the knot. “And wear the bloody tie.” 

“Yessir,” Cody had squeaked, and carefully sat the hell down while she sashayed back over to Bly’s side of the conference table. (Seriously, did part of her costume include replacing her spine with one that came out of a fucking  _ cat?  _ There is no possible way someone can naturally have that much wiggle in their walk, what the hell.) Bly couldn't see everyone staring at her, because  _ he'd  _ been staring at her when she sat down in front of him on the table and pulled the satchel of cosmetics over to her. 

“I still don't see why  _ we  _ have to be the bait,” Commander Tano had grumbled, and slouched in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest.

“She has a point, aren't they redundant?” General Skywalker asked, repeatedly flexing his fingers and eyeing the insanely expensive, high-grade synthskin over his artificial hand like he wasn't sure if he liked the effect. “Bodyguards can get  _ plenty  _ close to a Senator.”

He had tried not to choke on a stifled laugh and turned it into a cough, Cody cleared his throat like he was trying to do the same. General Kenobi had  _ sighed _ , not even touching that softball of a giveaway, and they braced for another explanation of the plan that will inevitably go right out the window.

    * Clones on the doors as bouncers, not bodyguards
      * With sufficient cosmetic alterations to _not_ look like clones. For once his mutant strain came in handy, all he needed was a wardrobe change and colored contacts, turning his eyes as blue as Commander Tano's (which turned out to be nearly as striking against his bronze skin as her gold)
    * Skywalker and Kenobi as rich snobs out on the town
      * Also disguised
        * Skywalker with a haircut he was _not_ happy about, 
          * And that was without anyone telling him the style was especially popular with a particular subset of clones, enough that it was something of an advertisement for “I like to give head and have my hair pulled during sex, please sit on my face?” Kenobi knew that, and yet had _still_ said it suited him.
            * Anyone that thought Kenobi didn't know about Skywalker's affair with Senator Amidala was an idiot.
        * Kenobi with a dye-job and the most outrageously high-maintenance sculpting of facial hair he could find in the weekly fashion holos. It was apparently something _very_ New Mandalorian and was undoubtedly a dig at the Duchess, who wasn't even involved.
          * Shaving the beard off entirely would have been better for a disguise, but apparently he hated the fact that he very nearly looked younger than his former Padawan without it.
    * Secura and Tano as dancer and waitress respectively and quite rightly crankier than anyone about it.
      * Original plan had two waitresses, but the club owner had assumed General Secura could not only dance, but _,_ y'know _, dance,_ and hired her accordingly
      * __Apparently_ the assumption was correct_
      * Apparently Bly had known this all along, and had the self-control of a Jedi


        * The ideal, not, well, any of the ones _they_ worked with. Compare him with General Luminara maybe.
  * Essentially, everyone mobile in hopes of _someone_ getting close enough to collect damning information) 



 

“Because this particular assignment requires heavy visual application of tits  _ and  _ ass, and while most of the participants here have been blessed in the latter, only two of us have the former,” General Secura said icily, before Kenobi could even get started.

“Speak for yourself,” Commander Tano had muttered, looking down at her own modest bustline and, much to his dismay, grabbing on with both hands to mash them together. “Look at this, I've got handfuls at best, when is some of this damn morphism going to affect somewhere  _ interesting  _ already?” 

He was pretty sure she didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud, and he had tried to look  _ anywhere _ else, because parts of her being  _ interesting  _ is the sum total of his problems lately. He ended up watching General Secura work on Bly's disguise. 

General Secura had layered some sort of brownish stuff over his cheekbones, masking his tattoos completely, and it should have made him uncomfortable, (a glance at Cody says he's definitely feeling weird about it) because the gold stripes are what make it  _ Bly's  _ face, like his hair or Cody's scar. First thing Bly did when he got his unit's assigned colors was put them on his body, first with paint and then inked into his skin. But Bly was… perfectly relaxed, almost  _ too  _ calm, his eyes half-closed as he lets General Secura erase his face and then rebuild it into someone else's with various shades of brown and tan and something with a faint shimmer to it that took away the weird matte effect of all the rest of it. By the time she was done, he looked like a completely different person, the cheekbones and nose and jawline sharper, the distinctive warm amber of their eyes amplified until his almost  _ burn  _ gold, but that could just be a product of the way he'd looked at her.

Fuck's sake, Bly, just kiss her. Kenobi wouldn't care and he'd been pretty sure Skywalker was more uncomfortable with the way General Secura had carefully wiped a misplaced streak of nude lipstain from Bly's bottom lip with her thumb than if she'd done it with her damn tongue.   
  
“Hm. Not bad, for lack of better materials, but I think I like your real face better anyway,” she had mused, tilting his head back and forth to inspect her work. The tip of her thumb was still on Bly's lip, and he felt like he'd intruded on something incredibly intimate.    
  
“That's a relief,” Bly had said, smiling slowly, General Secura still touching his face. Neither of them had seen Cody rolling his eyes, probably about three seconds away from suggesting they clear the room so Bly can knock General Secura backwards onto the conference table and ruin his new paint job between her legs. Cody, as ever, had no time for mutual unrequited pining sleenshit, and he was starting to see his point. They were  _ ridiculous _ . And yes, he  _ was _ quite comfortable in his hypocrisy, fuck you very much.

Or at least he  _ had  _ been. Cody had cheered up considerably when it turned out General Secura had no intention of getting rid of his scar, but instead to gleefully make it  _ worse _ . There was flesh-colored putty involved to bring the thick scarring down his cheek, filled in faintly with rusty-red like it was still an open injury. Several butterfly bandages held the edges of the “wounds” closed and a liberal dose of purple-green-yellow tinted smears made the bruising look worse than three days after he got the  _ real  _ injury, and that was more or less a fuckdamn  _ rocket to the chest _ . He had wanted to make it even more severe, wanting to know if they could get him “a lens like Rex’s, but, y’know, white, like he lost the eye” but that he could see through because then people would underestimate him and think he had a weak side and--

“You just want to look like Wolffe.”

“I do  _ not. _ ”

“It's quite alright, Cody, we all know you want him to do unspeakable things to you,” Kenobi had drawled, rolling his eyes. 

“And you  _ don't? _ ” 

Skywalker had buried his head in his arms with a disgusted moan in order to drown out Kenobi's response of “Well you've given him such a stunning recommendation…” 

 

And eventually the subject was dropped and everyone moved onto the next phase of the plan.

 

He'd been fine. Totally fine. Except now they were in a holding pattern until they could confirm Senators Rask, Stavon, Tyrskanan and their cronies were in the club. And instead of the usual highly social hurry-up-and-wait clusterfuck with multi-squadron, inter-battalion operations 

  * Swapping stories, data files, contraband, body fluids, whatever. 
  * Getting fleeced at sabacc _and_ pazaak 
    * Because 327th Colo is full of dirty rotten cheaters 
    * 41st Aurek wasn't much better



He's stuck alone waiting for Mid Shift to roll around so he can take his position on the club floor as a highly trained and paid (ha!) member of the House Security Detail. 

They need to spread out coverage and can't have too many of them on the floor at once, because even with General Secura's cosmetic sorcery, he, Cody and Bly still looked similar enough to be normal-people related, and that could raise suspicions with their cover. 

He was remarkably proud of their cover. 

Q: How do you get onto the security detail of a Senator? 

A: Being the former employees of another Senator helps, and they oh-so-conveniently had Senators Amidala and Organa in their pockets as a references. 

 

Q: How do get onto the security detail of a  _ corrupt  _ Senator who  _ hates  _ your “previous employer” for various sociopolitical reasons included but not limited to corporate greed, personal vendettas and general misogyny?

A: Being  _ disgruntled _ former employees. Good, hardworking Coruscanti boys who weren't happy about the way that scrawny bitch had danced right along to the Jedi's  tune and replaced her guards with a bunch of bloody-handed toy soldiers. Meat cans. Kaminoan wet droids. Whatever you wanted to call them.

  * He wasn't sure which made the Jedi more uncomfortable, the way he'd dropped his homeworld accent and so easily ripped the room a new asshole, or the sheer volume of anti-clone propaganda he, Bly and Cody had so blithely rattled off to build their cover story into something coherent.



 

But until his team can move in, he's stuck sprawled out on this ridiculously opulent hotel bed, bored out of his fucking  _ mind.  _ Apparently the staff only get “Two Stars” rated rooms, on the midlevel without any of the Scenic Views or Amenities, but if a feather-filled blanket _ and  _ a quilt _ , soft _ sheets,  _ two _ fat pillows on a “full” bed (whatever that meant, at any rate it was twice the size of his bunk) and his own refresher, refrigerator, desk  _ and  _ an armchair was just Two Stars, the Five Stars would probably make his head explode. 

The novelty had started to wear off regardless. There was only so much power-napping a man could do, and he'd already modified his Staff Issued gear into something resembling Hilariously Underequipped But Eh It'll Work. 

  * One (1) pistol, a tiny little plasteel Czerka 388n piece of shit that tucked under his arm in a harness instead of off a gunbelt on his hip where it made sense
  * Two (2) charge packs for it, tucked under his other arm, because why let him have another holster + gun? Or more ammunition? Czerka _made_ extended clips for these stupid things, even they knew that.
  * One (1) allegedly blasterproof vest, which, according to a ping from Bly, was not stab-proof
    * Not that he'd gotten stabbed, he'd tested it, gotten yelled at by the civvie Requisitions guy for “ruining” it, and _then_ hadn't gotten to test the ballistics rating, even on the “ruined” one, because fuck informed preparation, apparently.
      * Nice to see that wasn't a GAR exclusive, in a backwards sort of way.



And  _ that's it  _ for Civilian Standard. Morons. Luckily he could ratchet the straps on his boot knives down to fit his calves under his pants legs without Ruining The Lines of his trousers, and the sheath for the big vibroblade he kept on his left thigh could be taped to the centerline of his gun harness to hang down between his shoulders. A bit of practicing revealed that he wouldn't even need to shuck his stupid jacket to get to it. (He might Accidentally cut through said stupid jacket if he had to draw it, which would just be A Tragedy.) 

He'd also already raided the fridge for snacks, (not the minibar, because he's  _ working _ , but the chocolate covered almonds are fair game, and the rest goes in his duffle) and  _ obliterated  _ his  _ Droid Equine Rampage  _ high score. That finally put him back on top of the 501st roster (suck it, Tup), but the holonet signal here had to be  _ paid  _ for (hourly!) so he couldn't download anything new, and what the fuck else was he supposed to do with himself?

… He could finish Tras and Lili’s holo. Definitely no one to peek over his shoulder in his bunk and ask what he's watching while curled up on his side around his datapad with his headset on, audio synced to said datapad and keyed into a private channel. (Seriously, what the hell, Fives, wasn't it obvious?) 

Or he could  _ not  _ do that, because Commander Tano's heat is over and therefore he doesn't  _ need  _ to know how to assist. 

… with  _ this  _ one, but it happens a couple times a year, and stars only know what sleenshit cockup will happen around the next one. It's a  _ useful skillset. _

Except, again, he'd have to pay for the holonet data with money he doesn't have. Well, he could  _ get _ it, through a lot of convoluted digital shenanigans involving the multiple millions of hacked bank accounts insanity those psychos in the Nulls came up with, but it's too much effort to download a single holo. Especially since said video is really just and equally convoluted excuse to gather information so that when he shoves his hands into his blacks--well, not his blacks, now. Fuckssakes yeah these trousers don't hide  _ anything _ \--and inevitably jacks off thinking about screwing his Commander brainless, at least the visual will be  _ accurate. _

But it doesn't matter, because he can't (well, technically  _ won't _ ) get to it anyway, because paid holonet, so he should just aim for another power nap. 

… Except he already knows this halfie isn't going to go away anytime soon, and he's had too many cold showers in his life for  _ that _ to have any effect.

… And he has something like 50gigs of high resolution pornography specially curated to his current interests by someone who could very easily do it for a living _.  _ Dammit.

He rolls over onto his back with a sigh, flipping through the files to his helpfully donated, (probably crowdsourced) new spank bank, undoing the tiny, fiddly little buttons down his chest with one hand. One female tends to feature rather prominently. Multiple clips, two of the videos and several stills, one of which is apparently from a calendar, where she featured as Ms. Month 3. 

… that's a good place to start,  _ damn.  _ It looks classy and subtle, unless you know what to look for.  She's undeniably beautiful, bright gold eyes half-lidded under insanely long eyelashes and the shimmer of her veil. All the gold shines especially bright against the deep, warm red of her skin, more subtly on the pale silver and white stripes, chevrons really, of her headtails.  She's sitting upright, hands behind her on what looks like a Senatorial council table, nude but for long silvery-white stockings and the fine gold-and-silver chains, mesh and and beads draped over her montrals and face. Her legs are demurely crossed, and her headtails pulled forward to hide most but not all of her breasts.

The upper slopes of which are dusted with something that shimmers faintly, but more importantly, her headtails are curled up loosely in her lap. This would be perfectly ordinary, if not for the fact that there's  _ three  _ silver-and-white striped tips curled up in the V of her thighs, one coated in thin, silvery slick and coiled around the others.

That and her  _ mouth. _ Her lips are painted the same slightly iridescent pearl white as her markings (which is giving him all  _ kinds  _ of ideas) and look plush as the pillows he's tucked up against… or Commander Tano’s. 

He scrolls idly through the files until a clip catches his eye, this one  _ significantly _ less demure. Black and white, so he can't see the the colors, the camera lovingly framing the lower torso of a paler Togruta, probably gold? Eh, she can be gold if he wants, and the lighting makes her scale markings fade to near invisibility while the stripes on her headtails stand out starkly. At any rate, her lover’s dark complexion is a dramatic contrast as their hand trails gently down her heaving stomach to cup her sex over the lace of her panties. Something  _ definitely _ moves under there, and her hips buck upwards--and the clip restarts.  _ Dammit. _

He watches it loop a few times while he pulls his belt open. (Imported Alderaanian letheris, but can they put the holster on it?  _ No. _ ) It's  _ weird  _ having two layers of clothes over his junk, but eh, it builds the tension a little to get his free hand inside his pants and still not be able to really touch himself. He might as well enjoy this. Take his time. That and the silk feels  _ really  _ nice, and, well… silky, as he slowly rubs his half-hard cock through it, the weird strip of open fasteners on his trousers brushing against the back of his wrist. 

A still next, the girl purple-and-pink like Lili, but built out of lean, cut muscle where Lili had been all soft curves. More like Commander Tano, only much taller, but even then, the tips of her headtails nearly brush the floor as she bends down towards the camera, hands on her hips. She's smiling challengingly, biting her lip, her pointed teeth slightly denting the pearl-painted surface, but her fangs are retracted and he’s… very slightly disappointed by that.  _ Dammit. _

Maybe let's see what the videos have to offer? The first one is Ms. Month 3 again, sans all the lacy jewelry, plus white satiny gloves up to her elbows and a partner. It's human male with something like ten kilos of muscle on her, so ridiculously pale between the wild scattering of freckles across his face, shoulders, chest and--hell,  _ everywhere, _ that the hot blush of arousal lights him up pink all the way down to the dusting of  _ bright _ copper hair below his navel. He's  _ whimpering  _ as they kiss, slow and filthy, one of her hands fisted tightly near his throat, around--oh  _ shit  _ is that a  _ leash _ ? 

She gives the camera a razorblade smile, looking out the corner of her eye before she wraps a loop of slack white letheris around her fist and  _ hauls  _ her lover--her  _ pet _ , fucksakes there's a little silver  _ bell  _ on the loop of his matching white collar--down to her breast, letting out one of those devastating little musical moans when he automatically latches onto her nipple, licking circles around it between sucking kisses. Oh shit,  _ wow. _

More like  _ Oh shit, ow  _ because he just dropped his datapad onto his face trying to squirm out of his trousers one-handed because fuck _ damn  _ we are in business. He grabs one of the pillows and props his datapad up at eye-level, kicking his trousers and underthings off his legs and over the side of the bed before pushing his sleeve up a little more securely. His free arm is tucked up under his head and the other pillow, the front of his open shirt pushed out of the way behind him. Getting it a little wrinkly was one thing but he didn't have time to launder it. 

He probably should just take it  _ off _ , but the crisp fabric feels  _ different  _ and kinda nice on his skin, and he looks damn good like this. He's never really  _ cared  _ how he looks when jacking off, any time he's had an audience they've been an active participant as well. 

 

… But… maybe he's…  _ tentatively _ wondered about a role reversal, ever since he walked in on the Commander.

 

It's stupid to think about  _ that  _ when Pet is running his hand up Ms Month 3’s stomach to cup her other breast in his hand, rolling one nipple under his thumb in time with the way he's sucking on the other. The whole time, Pet is gazing up at her in complete adoration, and he can  _ absolutely  _ relate, especially when Ms Month 3 pulls him farther down her body, slow and steady. It's not the fact that she's hauling Pet around that has him loosely fisting his cock, stroking slowly as the camera follows Pet's worshipful descent down her stomach. It's the fact that she  _ knows what she's doing _ , utterly confident and more importantly  _ competent _ . She doesn't yank the leash, just applies even, steady pressure that conveys her orders with minimal effort.

She's not… y’know… alright “erect” is the wrong word for something that writhes around, dripping cloudy white fluid that looks an awful lot like human precum, but it's the same principle. It seems to take a bit of coaxing to get a lady's business out and squirming, but Pet has it down to a science, leaning in from the side so the camera can capture the way he slowly mouths the bit of her ovipositor that is extended, licking the edges of her slit and each dark chevron stripe as it gradually reveals itself. The pattern might form something of an optical illusion, making her look longer and thicker than she should, or she's  _ spectacularly _ well-endowed, but he doesn't care. More important is the way every single lick, kiss or caress of her pet’s mouth on her ovipositor or slit produces an obvious visual indicator that he's doing something right-- and that's on top of her sweet, fluting moans and murmured praise--and it’s going  _ right  _ to his cock. 

_ “Would you like to suck me off, darling?”  _ She purrs, an actual, animalistic purr, deep in her chest as her thumb idly rubs along a bit of the leash wrapped around her hand. Her pet  _ whines  _ into her skin, lips pressed to the root of her ovipositor, and she tightens her grip on the leash.

_ “Ah-aht! Words.”  _

Ohshit.

_ “Yes, yes, please--!”  _ Pet answers hoarsely between sloppy, scattered kisses over her hip.

She smiles fondly, possessively, where he can't see, and runs her hand through his curls, longer than he's seen on anyone but Tup, possibly longer, and secured with an elastic at his nape. 

_ “Should I let you?”  _ she asks, pulling one lock free and twining it around her finger. 

He whines right along with the other human this time, stroking himself with considerably more enthusiasm than when he started.  _ Shit  _ yes, please. Her pet has a lovely mouth, with thin but beautifully shaped lips, and he's obviously gagging for it, however the hell a blowjob works when the relevant anatomy actively, enthusiastically writhes around. 

“ _ Hm. Perhaps after you finish your dinner,”  _ she muses, and there's a shift of bodies and camera angle as she lifts her uppermost leg and hooks it over his neck, somehow managing to swap the leash around when she does so she can pull him face first into her cunt, her pet scrambling to follow and reposition himself between her legs. 

By the time she's finished, both her legs are wrapped around his shoulders, the taut leash running up from between her thighs to her hands between her breasts. Her ovipositor slides across her stomach for a moment, milky fluid oozing out to trail across her skin and pool in her navel until-until-until  _ fucking hells,  _ it coils around the leash in a slick-shining spiral and his cock  _ throbs  _ in his hand.

Her pet settles between her legs with the air of a man prepared to engage in a task he  _ dearly  _ loved for a good, long while, never breaking eye contact as his hands curve up around the her thighs and--

And the  _ fucking  _ holoplayer clicks off, end scene. Are you  _ fucking serious?!  _ He groans and grabs at his datapad, flipping through to find the next holo in the scene, or at least another good one. Fuckdammit  _ he's  _ not the one that's supposed to be hanging off the razor’s edge of painful arousal. 

 

… There's a thought. When's the last time he did  _ that?  _ Had enough time and energy to really work himself over, take his time enough to edge himself, maybe more than once, even? There's a difference between just jacking off and actually pleasuring himself, making himself feel  _ good _ . Alright, he can do that. 

He sets the holo to play again, turning his head sideways to watch while he eases onto his back, settling down into the ridiculously soft bedding, his forefinger and thumb a tight ring around the base of his cock, rocking his hand back and forth so his splayed fingers rub over his balls and along the crease of his thighs. His other hand trails over his chest, pushing the folds of his open shirt aside to mimic the way Ms Month 3’s pet rolls her nipple between his fingers, then follows his path down her lean stomach with his hand, down between his legs, bypassing his cock entirely to trace circles around the sensitive patch of skin under his balls. 

The holo ends again, and while finding the next scene in the sequence would be ideal, he's not in a rush anymore, and scrolls to the next file at random before getting his hand between his legs again.

And it's a  _ winner,  _ damn. Another clip, the star actually orangey gold-and-blue for real this time, even, her face out of frame save for her open mouth as she pants raggedly, so he can pretend she's whoever he wants. She's even built right, small-boned and lithe, but thicker, like she's not running herself ragged alongside an army.  _ Good.  _

The shot is up-angled, giving a clear shot of the way she has both hands tucked between her legs, coated in blue slick dripping down onto the… lounge? Something? Who cares, the upholstery looks expensive and she's ruining it with sex and a small bitter part of him greatly approves. One hand is fisted tightly around her root, enough that more slick is oozing out between her fingers, the other slowly, gradually working up the thick, eagerly pulsing length of her ovipositor in short motions. There's a building intensity in her body as she moves, her breath hitching, her stomach flexing as she bites her lip on what had to be a  _ beautiful  _ moan if there had been audio. 

His imagination helpfully provides the soundtrack from what he'd overheard from Commander Tano, a little longer and drawn out to match the visual, as he follows the motions of her hands with his own. It's different, a little strange at first, but it still feels  _ awesome _ , especially when she gets up to the tip, rolling her wrist to rub the whole of her hand in circles around it, that weird cloudy precum drooling out over her knuckles, and  _ his,  _ especially when the hand around her root darts down a bit farther, probably to the hotspot just inside her slit. He responds by slowly pressing down behind his balls, getting a little pressure on his prostate that has him moaning faintly, unable to resist stroking himself normally, just a bit, before he goes back to following her. 

She's close, the signs apparently fairly universal: leaking all over her hands, stomach heaving, hips rolling, hands moving a little faster, harder, until one last convulsive pulse of her ovipositor has a lot more fluid pouring out and--

And something else. There's something shiny black and spherical cupped in her palm as she  _ sighs  _ contentedly, shifting to put it aside before she goes back to rubbing the root of her ovipositor. The only sign that the clip restarted is a bit less spilled fluid on her hands and her… everything else. 

Was that--? Yeah that was definitely an egg. She's… working herself through the second stage of a heat and he's not sure how he feels about it. The first bit is undeniably erotic as hell, and he can't help following along with her motions again because it  _ feels  _ incredible, and knowing that this is what she does, has done, is making it incredibly difficult to give a damn about the whole egg thing. 

Hell, with the seamless sync of the clip reset, the girl in the holo could conceivably appear to do this forever, which would be unspeakably hot to someone that  _ did  _ like that sort of thing. He's just. Not sure yet.

 

… Good thing he still has a ton of other clips and extensive training to Ignore Distractions And Maintain Mission Focus. Right. He scrubs a hand off on the sheets and flips through files that are starting to trend more towards featuring muscular, bronze-brown complected human men and orangey-gold-and-blue, lithe Togrutan females and _fuckssakes Fox, he can take a damn hint._ Although he was pretty sure _that_ still had featured a blue girl. Eh, maybe there's doubles, it had been a good shot regardless. It's not as if Fox doesn't know his market, and know it _well_ , as evidenced by the next clip. The female leaves dark metallic bronze lipstick prints all down the shaft of her partner’s cock, and then pulls back slightly with a smile to run the very tip of her long, pointed tongue back up his length with a teasing little flicker just under the crown that makes her lover twitch, _hard_ , before she starts all over again with the kisses, another seamless loop.  That? That he could imagine going on forever. He'd probably _die,_ but not before he came hard enough to pull a muscle in his back. 

He follows this clip too, stroking firmly down but keeping the upstroke as light and teasing has her tongue, loosening his grip until just the tip of his middle finger follows curve of his cock, ghosts over the leaking head before he wraps his hand around again, over and over. It becomes more and more difficult to keep up the tease, to resist just fucking his fist and ending it, so he pauses to change the video, find something that will build and burn in his belly until he lets himself explode.

Gold and blue again, laughing in a short white dress, bursting through a door ahead of a blond, dark-tanned man in crisp white shirtsleeves and dark slacks like his stupid disguise. If he squints, it could be them, could some security camera catching them together. He catches her by the wrist, not roughly, just to hold her, kissing her palm, her wrist, his other hand going to her face before he leans down to kiss her sweetly, hungrily. She kisses back, catching his bottom lip between her sharp teeth without breaking the skin, pressing herself up against his chest and pulling at his clothes. 

He lets her drag his fine shirt off his shoulders,  unwilling to break their kiss. She moans into his mouth as his hands come up to her breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaks of her nipples, visible through the thin fabric. He pulls the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders next, following them down with his mouth, while she hooks a long leg over his hip and he catches her under the knee, pulling her close and onto his thigh. That makes her moan again, both her hands coming up to cradle his head, her fingers raking through his short hair for a moment until she drops them to his shoulders and pushes him down to his knees.

He goes willingly, pushing her skirt up and pressing his face to the thin scrap of lace between her legs that just barely holds her ovipositor back. She helps him drag the lace down her legs and off with one hand, the other still threaded through his hair. Her sweet moans don't entirely drown out the soft, wet sounds of his mouth on her sex, his fingers delving deeply into her. She keeps him there a while, stroking his hair and his face as he worships her with his mouth, draws more, longer fluting cries out of her, makes her  _ sing _ , until she steps out of one glossy high-heeled shoe and puts her bare foot on his shoulder. 

He looks up right as she pushes down, and he goes from kneeling to bent over backwards in a hurry, turning his head to kiss the delicate bones of her ankle. She tilts her head with an expectant smile as he does, watching him run his hands up and down the length of her calf, reaching up higher without pushing up against her weight high on his chest, even though it wouldn't be difficult to take her down to the floor and have his way with her. 

Instead he reluctantly stops touching her and drops his hands to his belt. If the way he rolls his hips to push his trousers down is a little more exaggerated than normal, a little show-offish, he can't really be blamed, not when said trousers make it obvious he got  _ damn _ lucky for a Standard before he even gets them open. He strokes himself as she watches, showing her how ready he is, how hard, as she slowly kneels down over him. His free hand returns to her calf, moving upward, his fingers dipping into the softness behind her knee, up to the top of her thigh as she settles into his lap. Her own hands are moving as well, one on his stomach, following the contours of muscle there. The other holds her dripping ovipositor against her belly, away from him, not letting it twine around his cock the way he wants, just to see, even  _ once _ , and she smiles because she knows what he's thinking.

She wraps her hand around his, gently pulling his fingers from his shaft, lacing them with hers and bringing their hands together to her mouth for a kiss. His hand tightens on the top of her thigh as she shifts forward, trapping his cock in the wet softness between her legs, still holding her ovipositor out of reach as she rolls her hips back and forth, taunting him with all her body. Eventually she takes pity on him and his pleading moans, his clutching hands, his hips straining under hers, and she sits up slightly to take him in hand and guide him into her on a long, lilting sigh. He bottoms out with a ragged, reverent curse, head and eyes rolling back and she smiles and it's  _ evil  _ because she stops moving entirely, holding him down with her legs alone

A beat of stillness, the only movement his heaving chest, hers, and the slow pulse and flex of her ovipositor against his stomach, the only indication that this is driving her as crazy as he is. His breathing slows, settles as he adjusts… and then she rocks her hips just once, deep and slow, making him buck and swear again. 

She bites her lip, trying and failing to hide a smug grin, and does it again, twice this time, forcing a short, harsh gasp out of him each time, then  _ again _ after a shorter beat, building an uneven, unpredictable rhythm that has him clutching at her hand. There's no thrust-and-drag, not like this, not when she's using him to drive herself into a frenzy, grinding the root of her ovipositor down on his pelvic bone, keeping him buried inside her. Her thighs tighten down on his sides and she leans back on her hands, her headtails falling back over her shoulders, brushing his legs and flushed so dark the white bands near the ends nearly disappear. 

Bands of muscle start to contract around his cock, drawing an almost pained cry out of him that's significantly less pleasant but just as heartfelt as the way her moans are starting to cascade up and down a musical scale he lacks the education to identify, but beautiful all the same. He can't take much more, his hips rolling with hers what little she'll let him. She lets him take his hand from her hip, wrap his hand around her length, stroking in time with her shifting, rolling hips, her soft cries. He can't keep up, his rhythm uneven and erratic on the smooth wet surface of her skin but it seems to work for her, her body tightening around him, hands and thighs and  _ cunt _ , hot and slick and pulsing, perfect and everything he's ever wanted and

“Ah-ah-ahhh _ fuck,  _ fuck, I’m-- _ hhh-ah!” _

He breaks off, curling up slightly, completely involuntarily, as she sits up and forward, her palm hitting his chest.

“ _ No, _ ” she snarls, pushing him back down, leaning over him, something in the clear hot blue of her eyes pushing him back from his peak, even as she rolls her hips harder, fucking herself on his cock. The new angle gives her more leverage, and she gets that evil smile again, holding him  _ shaking _ on the edge and lost in her eyes. “Not until you say it.”

“ Fffffuck--I--I-- please , _please_ , Ah-ah- _nnngk_ -soka,  Ahsoka, please, Ahsoka, _Ahsoka_ , 'soka, soka please  fuck  please Ahsoka _please let me please--”_

She sits up again, entirely too calm, and her smile softens with the motion of her hips, returning to her deep, slow pace, for all the good it does, he's still pleading, begging, falling apart under her.

“Now.” 

He stares at her a moment that feels like hours, this incredible woman that so obviously holds his heart in her hands--and comes so hard he whites out.

It takes a minute for him to be able to see again, with a brief, irrational surge of panic--

_ oh shit that stupid Jedi joke where you can go blind is  _ true  _ oh shit _

\--before he figures out that his eyes are closed, have been closed, tight enough in concentration that it's apparently given him a headache, and that he hadn't been paying attention to the holo for a while. He hadn't needed to. 

Moving is a bit more difficult. There's a tremor in one leg that won't quit, and his stomach hurts like he's finished half a dozen sets of crunches without stopping. Fuckssakes. Guess that's what he gets for keeping himself pent up for weeks.

 

… Months.

Technically not, he’s been--the thing in the gym with Cody was hardly the only encounter he's had in the last while, not even with Cody, and for that matter there'd been other people  _ besides  _ Cody! And he's done this!

 

… Well, not  _ this.  _ Not. Not  _ like _ this, nothing so clear and vivid and beautifully detailed.  _ Shit.  _ He owes Fox an apology too. 

 

Provided he doesn't immediately die of embarrassment immediately upon making eye contact with Commander Tano in the club later that evening. In  _ her  _ costume. Fuck.

 


	4. System Overload

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally, they're finally fucking.

This might actually be Hell. It's not on fire,  _ (yet) _ but not all hells are on fire anyway and he's had enough terrible deployments to know that fire is definitely not a requirement for a horrible situation. Hoth comes to mind. Hoth might actually have been better than this, despite the constant fear that the dick-shrivelling cold would make his balls  _ permanently  _ recede up into his body. On Hoth he wasn't surrounded by elitist pricks, just the usual assholes. 

No. This is a  _ personal _ Hell. This is

  * Unarmored
  * Unarmed
  * Unfamiliar environment



Combined with

  * Hostile non-combatants
    * In close quarters, no less. 
      * He's going to put the next rat-faced drunken billionaire that crashes into him and acts like it's _his_ fault through the nearest wall
    * And if they weren't hostile or ignoring him, they were hitting on him. Which, in some cases, was moderately flattering, but unwanted.
      * “Capable of bench pressing him (by physical or mystical means)” was on his List, dammit. He has _standards._
  * Piss-poor, dim “mood” lighting made worse by ten thousand flicker-flashes off too many reflective surfaces. 
    * Gemstone jewelry and crystal drinkware and fancy timepieces that spit and spark light like the ocular lenses on a clanker, the scope on a hidden rifle.
  * Pervasive noise that could have been used as an audio clip in overstim trials back on Kamino
    * The occasional _shriek_ that takes a half-second too long to identify as scandalized laughter
    * Expensive glass breaking 
    * Some overly opinionated asshole deciding that the best way to make his point is through _volume._
      * Usually to berate some waitress for putting _three_ olives in his drink
        * Which he'd specifically asked for, not three minutes ago.
    * Horrible, pitch-shifted woodwind and string instrumental music allegedly written some Senator’s Child Prodigy that sounded like a drill bit to the eardrum but was apparently the Pinnacle of Culture
  * Dense, thick air full of smoke and scented vapor and perfume and alcohol and worse.
    * Apparently glitterstim and kik-dust  were classy enough for this crowd, _if_ snorted and licked off a silver platter. Or an _expensive_ dancer. 
    * Honestly he'll be a little surprised if he doesn't end up with a contact high by the end of the night. 
  * This _fucking_ suit that hung and rubbed and moved wrong, that hadn't fit right with the blasterproof vest after all, so he was as good as fucking _naked_ with a fucking leash around his fucking neck, and not even the fun kind.



  


It had his teeth on edge and his hackles up, standing at some approximation of At Ease with his fists curled so tight at the small of his back that his knuckles hurt. The worst of it was he couldn't  _ do  _ anything about it. He was  _ Security Detail. _ He had to stand by and watch a collection of rich, spoiled snobs fuck around, trash the place, harass the waitresses and a slew of other sleenshit jackass behaviors that would have gotten them booted out of 79s or any  _ decent _ place on their fancy asses in a heartbeat. 

  


Apparently it was different here.

Fire might be an improvement.

  * Drinking out of crystal meant the bartender you just dog-whistled at for another round couldn't throw the contents into your arrogant face and tell you to piss off.  




  


He could definitely make fire happen. Fuck knew there was enough alcohol for fuel.

  


  * Eating exotic food prepared, plated and presented like works of _art_ meant you could scream at the waitresses for not catering to a dietary whim you never mentioned, and occasionally upend their serving trays because they didn't move out of your sloppily-drunk way fast enough.  




  


He could stuff his fancy-ass exclusively decorative breast-pocket handkerchief down the neck of a six-point-eight thousand credit bottle of Csillan Gold Destroying Angel spirits. 

  


  * Dancers in real Killik silk didn't get to kick your teeth in when your hands pinched and grabbed and wandered too far and pulled at their clothes.  




  


He could even add some Mustafaran volcanic salts for flavor and a bigger  _ bang. _

  


  * The War was something distant, dull thing that caused production delays on your custom-ordered Kuati racing speeder, raised the import taxes on your Corellian brandy, made you reschedule your holiday on Felucia, made you need to hire a new maid because this one's wife was killed in a crossfire or _something_ while visiting family on Ryloth and she kept crying in the walk-in closet instead of polishing the silver.  




  


Then he'd just tip it over with his thumb over the mouth to soak the wick. 

  


  * The War might have some _benefits_ , if one invested in plastoid composite alloy manufacture, in weapons development, in bacta farming.  




  


Light it with a spark off his vibroblade because the Kuat Drive Yards are under  _ siege. _

  


  * The War was _boring_ , can't we talk about something else?  




  


And whip the Galaxy's Most Expensive IED right into the side Trust Fund’s head because people are  _ dying,  _ you spoiled sack of  _ shit. _

_   
_

_... _

_   
_

A Diplomat of some delegation or other makes the mistake of looking at him, making eye contact, and quickly looks away, muttering into a drink that could have bought bug-out kits for thirty refugees about how  _ surly _ and  _ ungrateful _ the help was these days.

He's drawing attention to himself. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to pull his anger off his face, tipping his head to one side to crack his neck, let some of the tension bleed out. Hitting a fuckfaced asshat with a mostly full bottle of liquor would just cave the skull in, and that'd be a damn shame. Waste of a perfectly good incendiary. He could do that with his boot. If he  _ had _ his boots _. _

It almost works, for a second, and then he hears a startled, incredulous  _ yelp  _ from the last place he saw Commander Tano. Oh  _ fuck  _ no. 

  


The pack of Military Academy Students she's been trying to avoid all night have finally caught her-- _ literally  _ caught her, one of them reaching out to grab her third headtail as she walked by, laughing 

  


_ “Hey now, where are you going--” _

  


a soft-skinned, freckled hand on the fattest part of her headtail, where she's finally managed to keep some weight on this cycle

  


_ “Don’t be like that--”  _

  


squeezing,  _ hard _ , in threat and hauling her back towards the table amid raucous laughter 

  


_“Be nice to us_ _and we'll be nice to you--”_

  


and the drinks fall off her tray as she stumbles, she  _ stumbles _ , off balance in shock.

He's moving without thinking, crossing the room like a battlefield, moving past the people he can and  _ through  _ the ones who don't get out of his fucking way.  _ Fuck  _ his cover, fuck this mission, fuck the bastards who thought they had a right to lay hands on  _ his  _ Commander, fuck all the shit she's put herself through so some rich shithead can get his greasy paws on her ass while Bly and Secura and Kenobi and Skywalker scramble to get some kind of evidence against more rich shitheads when the entire fucking room is talking about the  _ investment opportunities  _ of the War and whether or not buying stock in mechanical engineering firms would be seen as  _ suspicious  _ and--

And five foot nothing of pale lilac Twi'lek in a lot of tinkling silver jewelry hooks an elbow into his, planting her feet wide and bracing herself to swing him around in the opposite direction, chirping “ _ Alright,  _ baby-blues, that's far enough.” 

  


The  _ fuck _ ?! Wait, right, his lenses-- _ fuck it _ \--

  


She grits out, “ _ Move it, blondie _ \--” through a big, bright rictus of a smile and stomps on his foot-- _ fuck _ that hurts--grinding her shiny stiletto heel down through his useless, fancy letheris shoes when he tries to keep going. “She's got it covered, cupcake, now  _ move  _ before we  _ all _ get fired.”

Sure enough, Ahsoka recovers from her shock by grabbing her tray in both hands and belting Grabby upside the head with the flat, and he's  _ viciously  _ proud, because  _ that's  _ his girl, that's  _ his _ girl you miserable pukes.

  


_ “Guess she likes it rough!” _

  


Fuck you _ , fuck you,  _ you don't get to talk about her that, you don't get to laugh, you don't get to  _ think  _ about her like that--

The Twi'lek on his arm spits a quiet, sing-songy curse and keeps dragging him backwards, until he realizes that he's drawing attention to himself,  _ again,  _ seconds before she shoves him into Bly.

  


“ _ Handle  _ him,” she snaps, jabbing Bly in the chest. “He’s scaring my customers.”

  


Bly immediately slings a companionable arm around his shoulder that could very easily turn into a headlock. “Wh--”

“You're worried about  _ them?”  _ he snarls, attempting to throw Bly’s arm off. “I just watched that  _ shitheel  _ grab a handful of your ass, and--”

“And he can grab whatever the  _ hell  _ he wants if he keeps tipping me and my girls fifty creds a pop,” she snaps, rolling her eyes, her hands on his hips.

Bly looks as incredulous as he does, that's a relief, but then the bastard  _ snorts  _ with laughter when the waitress grabs him by the face, squishing his cheeks and mouth to turn his head towards another table, just as a leggy, citrusy-green waitress gets hauled into someone's lap by her wrist. A red Togruta waitress with blue streaks on her horns neatly sidesteps the Twi'lek's kicking feet on her way back to the bar. “See that? See the up-and-leftward curl on her lek?” 

  


“Ysh?”

Shut  _ up,  _ Bly.

“So do I. It means  _ I’m good. _ It means  _ this dumbass is two whiskey sours away from whiskey- _ dick  _ and I've added an extra zero to my tip. _ ” she says. “It means  _ my job sucks, literally, but I've got med school to pay for and I've got this on lock,  _ and they should have  _ told  _ you that, but why the  _ fuck  _ would they properly train new staff? No. They just dump your asses on me.”

And then she pats his cheek twice, making him  _ very  _ glad Bly is the one wearing makeup. “You're sweet, Blondie, but the chivalry would be more appreciated if it wouldn't get us fired or  _ arrested. _ ” 

  


_ Bly, Rex, they're moving!  _ over their tiny, uncomfortable earbud coms, Secura sounding slightly worried, which meant she was near frantic.  _ What is going  _ on _ down there?! Ahsoka feels like she's about to strangle someone. _

  


_ Shit.  _ He starts to apologize and the waitress shushes him, mashing a finger over his mouth as  _ her  _ com goes off, some part of her fancy bejeweled headdress-and-harness apparently an earpiece (conepiece? whatever, it's a speaker and someone is talking)

  


_ Anoon, Senator Tyrskanan is asking for a new table in light of the disruption and the others threatening to take their business elsewhere, _ someone says, sounding tired.

  


“Fuck 'em,” the waitress, apparently named Anoon, snaps. “Tyrskanan's a bloody cheapskate anyway and Rask hasn't paid his tab in four cycles.

“He's going bankrupt,” she adds quietly, with a vicious smile that fades when she looks Bly.

“Ma’am _ , please,  _ don't let them leave,” Bly whispers urgently, and she cocks a skeptical, tattooed eyebrow at him. The civilian address doesn't sound forced at all, but it's clearly not something she's used to. “It's important.”

Her gaze flickers rapidly between his face and Bly’s, the other eyebrow going up as comprehension sets it. “Oh  _ really? _ ”

“Yes ma'am.”

  


_ Bly? Rex? _

  


_ “On it, sir,”  _ Bly says quietly, staring Anoon down.

She grunts, and chews contemplatively on her lip for a moment. “You boys going to make a mess if we get them into a private suite?”

“No ma’am,” Bly answers.  _ He  _ keeps his mouth shut, he's done enough damage for one night. “Just observation.”

“They aren't going to want a guard on the inside,” Anoon says.

“So comp them a dancer.”

“The new blue girl, right?” she asks tiredly, the tip of a lek flipping towards General Secura, up on stage and bent around another dancer in a way that shouldn't be possible, watching the Senators piss and moan at more staff.

“New is good, right? She's not yours, in the end, so if something goes up in flames it won't be  _ your _ ass.”

“ _ Fine.  _ But whoever lined this shitshow up is paying off my rent for the month,” she grouses, but makes the arrangements, speaking into her com. There's some arguing on the other end but eventually…

  


_ I don't know what you did or how you did it but it's brilliant. _

  


“Now if you'll  _ excuse _ me, I have another table to schmooze, thanks to you,” Anoon says, and pokes him in the chest.

He flushes darkly, looking away. “My apologies, ma’am.”

“You're lucky you're too sweet to stay pissed at, cupcake,” she grumbles, and very,  _ very  _ grudgingly softens, ever so slightly. “Just fucking  _ behave _ , alright? If it gets bad, we  _ have _ protocols. Safe ones. None of them expect  _ us _ to dope  _ their  _ drinks, for one.” 

“I've got it from here, ma’am,” Bly says, and she nods, huffing a sigh through her nose and-- _ and pinching his ass _ as she walks past them what the hell?

  


He doesn't get much time to think about it--damn, her nails were  _ sharp _ \--because Bly is shoving him in the chest, pushing him back up into the wall, growling, “The  _ fuck  _ is wrong with you?”

“The fuck is wrong with  _ you?! _ ” he snarls, shaking Bly off, shoving back. “'So comp them a dancer,’? The fuck was that?”

“ _ That _ was pulling my brain up from my belt long enough to do my  _ fucking job _ , jackass,” Bly snaps, and cuts him off before he can do more than open his mouth to respond. Before he can bring up the three troopers Bly sent to the medbay for  _ talking  _ about getting a piece of General Secura. “Save _ it.  _ Just…” 

  


Bly sighs heavily, leaning on his hand against the wall, closing his eyes. He reaches up like he wants to grab the bridge of his nose but can't, not without smearing his paint. “Get out.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Get  _ out _ ,” Bly repeats, visibly winding down from Fucking Pissed to Fucking  _ Tired _ . “Take five, get some damn air, get your shit together. We’re too fucking close to... Just… Just get your shit together and keep your shit together long enough to fucking  _ finish  _ this and then you get her and you get lost and you get your fucking teeth in every part of her they've touched until she can't feel anything but  _ you _ there, because she's going to need it too.”

That… sort of sounds like a personal reminder turned into a lecture.

  


Oh.  _ Oh. _

  


“ _ Fuck  _ I'm an asshole.”

Bly claps him on the shoulder with a strangely sympathetic sort of vindictive agreement, a  _ yes, yes you are, dipshit _ , that still feels commiserating, and moves back out into the main room. If Secura had the Senators contained, maybe they could make note of the idiots openly discussing the “investment opportunities” of the Separatist War Machine.

Well. Bly could.  _ He  _ was going to follow orders--even if they weren't  _ orders _ , specifically, even if Bly hadn't actually pulled rank on him--and get some air. He's going to stand outside in the markedly cooler, cleaner air, the club high enough in its tower to be above the pervasive pollution, and look out over the admittedly spectacular view of the city’s endless towers and speeder trails and hundreds of thousands of lights, the traffic noise muted by distance to a dull, soothing hum that almost manages to drown out the awful music and noise inside. He's going to stand here, maybe lean on the balcony and loosen his tie and just--

  


“ _ There  _ you are.”

  


Scratch that, apparently he's going to get yelled at by his Commander.

“Do you have  _ any  _ idea what you're doing?” she snarls viciously, venomously, from behind him. Low and dirty with a warning rumble in the undertones. He is  _ so  _ fucked. So fucked. Murder in her voice shouldn't hit like a punch in the gut. Well, it  _ should _ , but it probably shouldn't make his dick wake up and pay attention, too. 

  


“Yessir,” he answers softly. “Bl--”

“Oh hoho  _ no _ . Not what you've  _ done.  _ That’s  _ fine _ .  _ Somehow _ that's working out fine,” she snaps with a mirthless, disbelieving laugh. “I meant what you're  _ doing.  _ Now. To  _ me. _ ”

  


He turns at that, to see her backlit by the club, literally  _ livid _ , her headtails flushed bright as she literally stalks towards him, up on her toes and utterly silent. The myriad city lights catch something in the back of her eyes, flashing green-gold in the dimness. He can't stop himself from taking half an instinctive step back. 

  


And then another one when she keeps coming. 

  


“I d--”

“I can  _ hear  _ you. Shit, I can practically  _ feel  _ you,” she snarls, and jabs a finger into his forehead, her claws blessedly retracted, though leaning away has the thick balcony railing smacking into the small of his back. “ _ You,  _ in my head,  _ constantly _ , hungry and  _ hollow _ with wanting me, and  _ now _ pissed off and primitive and possessive, mine mine  _ mine  _ like I'm yours, like we're fucking  _ mated  _ but you won't fucking  _ act on it! _ ” 

  


Hang on, he--but--they--

  


That noise would probably be hilarious in another context: a rattling shriek of a snarl as she drums her fists on his chest in frustration.

“I don't want you to deck every sleemo that likes my tits and decides they want to grab a piece of my ass,  _ dammit, _ ” she continues, crumpling the lapels of his jacket in her hands. “I'm talking about days,  _ weeks _ , fucking  _ cycles  _ of  _ you _ in my head, about the fact that you'll spend the afternoon with your datapad and your left hand when I'm  _ in the next room,  _ you  _ dick.”  _

  


What

  


“And I have  _ tried-- _ fucking  _ Force  _ have I tried--to be patient, to let you figure this out, to work yourself up to it, because  _ I get it _ , it's fucking  _ weird _ \--”

No,  _ this _ is weird. He's never heard her swear like this. Though he's never seen her this pissed off, either.

“--because yes, there are some _significant_ anatomical differences, not to mention the sociopolitical factors, _and_ the power imbalance and our _jobs_ and our _mission--”_

Which might be in jeopardy, because her tirade is steadily increasing in volume and he's fairly certain she hasn't noticed. The people nearest the balcony in the club almost definitely have.

“--but  _ clearly _ you're into it so you need to sack up and make a fucking move or  _ move the fuck on  _ because I am getting sick and fucking tired of sitting through briefings with my skirt wet from a  _ secondhand cocktease!” _

  


He's not sure if  _ oh fuck shut her up before she gets the real security called on us  _ is his own thought or some Force command of hers or  _ both _ , and he doesn't know how the hell  _ that _ crashed into  _ kiss her! _

But it did and it worked and it should have happened a long time ago, because underneath the flat waxy texture of her white lipstick, under the salt-copper from his bottom lip nicked by someone's teeth, she tastes like everything he's ever wanted. It's rough and sloppy and not at all what he had ever thought of for a first kiss, for  _ their _ first kiss, but when he pulls back slightly, stands back up to breathe, she's staring at him, wide-eyed and shocked and maybe a little relieved and 

  


and she's wrapping his tie around her fist to haul him back down to kiss her again. His hands move up to cup her face, thumbs smearing the makeup and false scales altering the distinctive facial markings across her cheekbones as he kisses her.

  


_ Bloody finally,  _ hissed into his ear, her montral-- _ that’s _ the word, montral--and they freeze, her breath somehow cool against his mouth as Bly answers Secura

  


_ They talking?  _

  


Oh. Good. Not about them. It's the Senators. Better, Secura continues

  


_ They are talking.  _ Goddess _ are they ever talking. Bless Corellian libations. _

_ We’ve got them?! _

_ We've  _ got  _ them _ .

  


His triumphant laugh matches Ahsoka's excited squeal as she jumps up to fling her arms around his neck, her sharp heels kicking until she leans back enough to kiss him again, smearing a streak of waxy white across his upper lip, and then half a dozen more prints across his face as she showers him with gleeful kisses. This is considerably more like how he thought things would go.

The soft, hungry sounds deep in her throat when she finds his mouth again, the press of her headtails and her breasts against his chest, the pinpricks of her claws as she clings to his shoulders to hold herself up--that's more like something something he'd think about late at night, alone in the dark of his rack, and he should probably put her down before that line of thought continues.

  


He immediately stops, tilted awkwardly forward, when she growls and bites down on his bottom lip, hauling herself back up by her grip on his tie.

“ _ I am still mad at you _ ,” she snarls, and slowly licks the tiny beads of blood from his mouth. “And we're not done here.”

He pushes his forehead against hers, breathing hard. On top of all the reasons why they shouldn't do this, there's reasons they shouldn't do this  _ here,  _ like… like...

  


_ Fuck it. _

  


When would they get another opportunity like this? When would they be able to be two normal people getting carried away on pent-up sexual tension? People would comment on a clone kissing his Jedi senseless, but no one here would give half a fat damn about some jackass in an overpriced suit hoisting a waitress up off ground via his hands cupped around her ass, pulling her flush against his body. She moans into his mouth, soft and lilting and distinctly inhuman and this time he  _ knows _ it's because of him. Something moves slightly against his stomach and she lilts again, a different tone, shifting her hips from side to side in his hands to keep grinding herself on him.

“Gonna just rub one off on me, Commander?” he growls. She doesn't have ears for him to speak into, but putting his mouth right up against the curve of her montral makes her shiver, though she rallies, nipping at the corner of his jaw.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you,” she says, and it's not a question. It's taunting, accusatory, for all her she's blushing up and down the whole length of her headtails. “If I couldn't wait to get you out of your clothes, out of your  _ armor?” _

  


Fucking  _ Force  _ she's perfect. And that sounds like a fucking  _ challenge. _

  


He glances briefly over her shoulder--no one to see or stop them--and turns to tuck her behind an elaborately arranged and trained stand of night-blooming flowers, pale creamy white things like her stripes, until she's hidden from the world by it and the width of his shoulders. She squeaks and clings to him as he picks her up a little higher, bracing his foot on the bottom of the railing, and pushes his knee between her legs until she's straddling his thigh. 

  


“Yeah, I think I would,” he purrs, hands on her hips to steady her as she shudders, biting her bottom lip.

When the shakes don't stop and she leans forward, pushing her face into his chest and clinging to his lapels hard enough that her claws punch right through the silk, he gets worried. “'Soka?”

  


He gets a sinuous roll of her hips under his hands and an almost pained whine in response, kneading at his chest with her claws.

“Ahsoka tell me what's wrong,” he murmurs quietly, trying to tilt her head up with his fingers under her chin, but she fights him, hiding her face.

“ _ Can't _ \--” she says, a choked off, desperate sound, and he wraps his arms around her, inwardly kicking himself.

  


He's a fucking idiot, pushing her like this, just because she wanted him to  _ act on _ his feelings towards her doesn't mean she wanted him to  _ fuck _ her, let alone right here and now, outside, arguably  _ in public. _

“I’m sorry, we don't have t-- _ ow, shit!” _

  


She  _ bit _ him, right through his shirt, and it  _ stings _ .

  


“I mean I  _ physically can't _ ,” she growls, her face still mashed against his chest. She's getting glittery false scales and makeup all over his jacket and he really can't bring himself to care, especially since it seems like she's not hiding out of body-shyness or nervousness. It's ordinary embarrassment. 

  


“I have… I’m... _ ugh,  _ here--”

  


She grabs his hand, pulling it under the long translucent lengths of silk pretending to be a skirt, and pushes his fingers between her legs. A shuddering lilt escapes her sudden mouthful of his jacket when his fingertips brush against the damp, thicker fabric that has just barely covered her all evening. As wound up as she is, or at least how she's  _ acting _ , her ovipositor should at least slightly active even if she's not in heat anymore, but there's no movement under her flimsy clothes. She should be dripping wet, soaking through the leg of his slacks but… when she tucks his fingers under the fabric, against the soft, fever-hot flesh of her sex, there's… something in the way. She shivers and whines in his arms, overstimulated, but clings to his wrist until he begins to trace the edges of soft silicone with painstakingly gentle fingertips: a clip of some kind that holds her slit closed and keeps her ovipositor inside. 

  


“What on…  _ Why?”  _

  


She huffs a shaky laugh into his chest, tucking her montrals under his chin as she tilts her head to look down, and his hand stills.

“Like I said, you've been having a bit of an  _ effect  _ on me lately,” she murmurs, rubbing circles on the inside of his wrist with her thumb. “And my costume doesn't hide much. I didn't want to risk giving someone the wrong impression if you noticed that, started thinking about everything this stupid getup is supposed to imply.”

  


Fuck's sake. Jedi propensity towards insane levels of self-sacrifice was going to kill  _ him. _ He presses a kiss to the tip of one montral, and leans his forehead against the recurve. “Bloody hells, woman. You've been like this all day, haven't you?”

  


“Most of it,” she murmurs, still petting his wrist. “It wasn't so bad, earlier, but…”

  


But even with his hand only lightly resting against her, he can feel the heat pouring off her, her core temperature elevated by her arousal, her hammering pulse, the moisture seeping past the toy to slick his fingertips. More runs down his fingers when he carefully pulls at the edges of the clasp. 

  


“ _ Rex,  _ w-what--” she gasps, squirming, seizing his wrist. “What are you--”

“Fixing this,” he says, but stops long enough steady her on his thigh with one hand at the small of her back, opening a new channel on his com. “Cody, you up?”

  


Nothing.

“Hey  _ assclown,  _ answer your com.”

_ Mmhrr. _

“Rise and shine, fuckface. Calling in a favor. Get your ass down here.”

_ ‘s no favor in th’fuckin Galaxy what'll make me go back in there, shitlick _

“Day 8, Month 3, last year.”

_ Oh  _ fuck  _ you, Rex. _

“Just get down here.”

_ Yeah, yeah.  _

  


Ahsoka is staring at him, eyebrows cocked, arms crossed over her chest, but he's not done. 

  


“Bly. I'm swapping with Cody and going off coms. Taking your advice.”

_ Copy that. _

  


And then he pulls out his shitty, uncomfortable earpiece, stuffs it in the inside pocket of his jacket, where he can still hear someone yelling if there's an emergency--as much as he'd like to just chuck it over the balcony--and pulls her into another kiss, his hand cupping her cheek, fingers under the root of her headtail. 

  


“Now show me how to get that thing off you,” he growls, pressing his forehead to hers.

“ _ Rex,  _ I--The  _ mess?  _ Your  _ suit!” _

He grins against her lips and reaches up to pull his tie loose enough to undo the top fastener of his shirt before getting his fingers into the center seam and tearing it open halfway down his chest. “Is going down the trash chute anyway, remember? Plan Dorn.”

  


Over the balcony, rappel down the building to the open window of the extra room where they've stored more casual civilian clothes, and then make their escape checking out of the hotel like normal people. He knows for a fact that the flowerpot next to them holds the necessary items to make the drop, courtesy of their contact.

“You're insane,” she laughs incredulously, but she's kissing him again, leaning into him and inadvertently grinding on his thigh again, whimpering into his mouth at the motion until he stops her, hands on her hips to hold her still. 

  


“ _ Easy _ , love,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumbs over the ridged scales on her hipbones. “Sit back a bit so I can see, yeah?” 

  


She nods, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she settles back, one hand braced on the balcony rail, his tie wrapped around the other, and he runs his hands up the sweetly muscled length of her thighs. She shivers and moans quietly when his hands meet over her sex, the pads of his thumbs brushing over the soft silk and softer skin before he pushes the damply clinging fabric aside and gently rubs the back of his knuckles along the smooth surface of the toy, just to make her lilt again.

He can feel it twitch when she involuntarily tightens down inside, can see the muscles in her core flex and pulse.  _ Fuck  _ but he needs to get that thing off her so he can get his fingers, his dick, his tongue,  _ something _ into her.  

  


“It's… You just squeeze…” 

  


It's a sort of tension spring holding the lips of her cunt together, the flesh pinched and dark flushed between its soft jaws, and her sigh of relief tips head back, exposing her throat when he releases the clasp. It goes in his pocket for lack of anywhere else to put it, and the dark blue tip of her ovipositor begins to emerge without any prompting from him at all.

He should probably let her relax and come out to play, but instead finds himself running his fingertips along the swollen edges of her slit, soothing the wet, tormented flesh--and covering the softly writhing bit of stripes with the heel of his hand, holding it back himself.

Her claws rasp along the balcony rail, and the spiked heel of her shoe jabs into his calf when her thighs clench around his on another sweet moan, this one a rising two-note scale, and he can't help a smug grin. He carefully presses the tip of one finger into her, and that gets an even  _ better  _ sound: his name, the R a soft, rolling purr into a clicking  _ hiss  _ of an X. 

  


“Too much or not enough?” he asks quietly, stopping where he is and admiring the way her slick is already coating his fingers, her ovipositor pushing haphazardly against his palm as it writhes. He could slide in  _ so  _ easily, the leg of his trousers is growing damp under her.

“ _ Yes!”  _ she snarls, giving him a flash of fangs that pales in comparison to the club lights flaring green-gold again in the backs of her eyes. 

  


Her irritated hiss spirals back up into a moan, pitched higher with surprise when he tilts his hand, pushing his finger into her and relaxing his hand so her ovipositor can slither out over his palm and right up his sleeve as all the air in her chest comes out at once in a long, hauntingly lovely rush.

He chuckles and starts unfastening his cuffs, pushing the sleeves of his jacket and blue-splattered shirt up to his elbow. 

  


“S-Sorry,” she laughs, flushing a bit more and letting go of his tie to unwind herself from the loop she's made around his wrist.

He takes her hand, pulling it up to kiss her palm. “Leave it. I just wanted to be able to see.”

  


Apparently that was the right thing to say when your lover's more-or-less-a-dick squirms out and gives your wrist a hug, because she's wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and hauled him down for another a hungry kiss, leaning forward into his chest. His hand gets caught between her body and his leg when she wraps her other arm around his shoulders, and he starts to pull back when she sits up slightly, worried it's uncomfortable for her.

She bites his lip, a sign he is quickly learning to associate with Continue With What You're Doing Or Else, and she settles back down onto his hand with another sinuous roll of her hips, rocking back and forth. She’s--oh fuck she's  _ riding his hand _ , her legs wrapped tightly around his to hold herself steady, arms around his shoulders. She’s grinning viciously as she kisses him, all soft lips and pointed tongue and  _ teeth _ and the sharp taste of her venom, because fuck knew this is what he wanted, but he was  _ not prepared  _ for the reality of it. 

Could not have prepared for the softness of her headtail pressed against his chest, unnaturally warm against his skin in her excitement, the strong rhythmic flex of her legs squeezing his as she moves, the raw, fluting sound that pours into his mouth when she sits up enough to let him push another finger into the wet, clutching heat of her slit, when she shifts forward so the top of her thigh and the hollow of her hip rub against the hard swell of his sorely neglected erection.

She squeezes down around his wrist when he moans with her this time, sounding raspy and hoarse in comparison but no less sincere as he works the heel of his hand over the thick, fat root of her ovipositor. There's a hitch in her rhythm now, her hips tilted forward into his hand, no longer rocking back as far, as though she can't bear to break contact with him in the slightest. Her breathing has changed, the metal of her headband digging into his forehead as her moans hit the multi-tone cascade that has haunted his dreams, his  _ thoughts, _ for weeks, each note matched by a convulsive pulse around his fingers, around his wrist, until her big blue eyes go impossibly wide and she comes undone in his hand, her rising voice trapped behind her hand hastily covering her mouth. 

  


“Fucking  _ hells _ ,” he breathes, cupping her cheek in his hand as hers falls away from her lips. She shivers and sways, still clinging to his shoulders, and whimpers softly when he slips his fingers from her slit. Her ovipositor still has a tight hold on his wrist, though it's slick enough with her fluid that he can shift around a bit, get his hand on her hip.

“Liked that?” she laughs shakily, through a saber-bright smile.

_ Shit _ yes.

“Maybe a little,” he says instead, grinning back.

“Just a little?” she asks skeptically, her claws trailing lightly down his chest to his groin, and it makes him  _ hiss _ until she gets both hands on his erection, palming him, running the heel of her hand down his length.

“Maybe a lot,” he admits grudgingly, his cock twitching in her hands, tenting his slacks.

“‘ _ Maybe _ ?’” she prompts slyly, and kisses him lightly, shifting a bit so she can reach down farther, cupping his balls in her hand. There were claws on his chest just seconds ago, why was he so excited about having the hands those claws are attached to on his dick?! 

  


Probably has something to do with the way her arms pushing her breasts together and threatening to push them right out of her filmy top entirely. He's literally only Human.

  


“Alright,  _ yes, a lot. _ ”

“ _ Good, _ ” she purrs, her lips just brushing his as her hands move upwards to his belt, unbuckling it carefully, and pulling it through the belt loops slowly enough that he can feel it slide all the way around his back. “Because I want you to do it again.”

“Just like that, or did you have something else in mind?” he asks quietly, running his hand up the outside of her thigh. He certainly hopes so, with the way she's pulling his shirttails out of his slacks to drag the tips of her claws lightly up his stomach, the way she pets his chest slowly as she leans up to kiss him again.

“I might,” she teases softly, and her hands dip back down to his slacks again, fingertips following the front seam and line of his cock inside, her smile growing wider when he rocks his hips into her hands. She sways a bit with the motion, and he hooks his free hand behind her knee, pulling it up over his hip to hold her steady. It pulls her a bit farther up his body, and her ovipositor, still wrapped around his wrist, smears her fluids across both their stomachs. 

  


That seems to be more than she can stand to tease, and she whines into his mouth, clawing at the fastenings on his pants around the tangle of their hands until he carefully unwraps her from his wrist. Even touching her gently, she lilts and shivers as he gets both hands around her waist and lifts her off his knee, onto the balcony rail. She doesn't seem to want to let him go even then, her heels at the small of his back, her claws in his jacket again as he wrestles his slacks open. His shorts are damp as he shoves them down, whether from her slick all over his hand or his own precum he doesn't know and doesn't particularly care enough to stop kissing her and find out.

Not when her ovipositor has found his wrist again and he's taken himself in hand to rub the head of his naked cock along her slit, sliding over the soft fat  _ hot  _ root. He should take this slowly,  _ focus _ . He's built wrong for her, too thick and too blunt and not curved  _ enough _ , he should fit but he could  _ hurt _ her and _ ohfuck-- _

And, typical of her, she takes control of things, locking her ankles at the small of his back and  _ pulling _ with all the muscle in her legs, taking everything of him that she can at once, until his fist around his shaft is caught between them, pressed against the hot softness of her sex. 

  


“ _ Fuck,  _ 'Soka--”

“I’m not made of  _ glass _ , Rex,” she snarls, and he can hear her fangs in it, too close to his throat to be remotely comfortable and too hot for him to care as she pulls at his wrist, claws cutting into the back of his hand. “ _ Fuck me. _ ”

  


Maybe those rumors about insatiability weren't completely exaggerated.

  


He can't give her much more, she's too shallow to take all of him and so tight he  _ has  _ to be hurting her, but she's got her arms wrapped around his back, thighs around his hips and singing out loud and clearer than ever, hot slick wet  _ heaven _ around his cock and shaking in his hands. The way she's writhing, shifting, shuddering against him, claws kneading his chest, she  _ has  _ to be overstimulated, but… but maybe that's what she needs? That's how her biology works, right?

He pulls back slightly, just enough that she'll feel him move inside her, enough that she'll feel it when he pushes home again, and she  _ wails  _ into his chest when he repeats the motion, rolling his hips into hers.

He finds himself with his lips pressed to the curve of her montral, filth pouring out of his mouth into her skin, his hands tight around her hips and her ovipositor around his wrist as he finds his rhythm with her heels in his back to guide him.

  


“...that it, that what you need? Need my cock in you, need to feel good and  _ fucked _ , fucking  _ wrecked  _ and full up with my cock and my cum so you can fuck me, fill me up with your eggs?"

Her claws dig in and shred through the back of his jacket, and the sting of it, the burn of her venom in his cut mouth, just drives him on.

“--that's it love, that's it, mark me up, make me fuckin  _ yours,  _ fuckin show 'em--”

She shoves a hand between them with a mindless, trilling call, pulling her ovipositor off his wrist and pushing the writhing length down between her thighs so it squirms against the slicked-wet hair over his groin for a brief moment and

  


_ ohfuckohfuckfuckfuck _

  


coils tightly around what little of his cock won't fit into her.

  


He might have screamed.

He definitely froze, even when she hissed and buried her fangs in his chest for stopping, because _ that happened  _ and it's a thousand times better than he imagined because he's  _ still inside her _ with the hot pulsing length wrapped around him, squeezing and stroking and he's either going to cum on the spot or fucking  _ die  _ if he moves and she's not done yet, not the second time like she wanted and--

  


_ ohfuckAhsokaplease _

  


and she's bucking against his durasteel grip on her hips, holding her down and

  


_ AsokafuckI’mfuckI’m _

  


and she's staring up at him, blue eyes like blasterfire burning into him, backlit green-gold by the city lights around and above and below and

  


**_LetMeFeelYouRex_ **

  


and he falls

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

  


_ Fuck  _ his chest hurts.   


  


That's literally the only thing that registers in the sea of static where his brain used to be.

It  _ aches  _ because she bit down right into the blasterburn over his heart, top  _ and _ bottom fangs, shit, that's supposed to be pretty rare.

  


He's. 

Bleeding. 

Kind of a lot. 

That's probably the venom.

The slightly unreal warmth and dizziness is definitely the venom.

Or a blood sugar crash.

  


She's licking the injuries carefully, one hand resting lightly on his stomach, petting him slowly, soothingly. It seems to be stopping the bleeding already but he's probably going to want some bacta.

Kix is going to  _ kill  _ him.

  


Her ovipositor has already withdrawn, though he can still feel her slit pulsing faintly around his softening cock.

  


“Did. Did you… again?”

He sounds like he's been shouting himself hoarse for hours over an antispacecraft battery, and she smiles against his chest, humming an affirmative as she tucks his chin between her montrals with a tilt of her head.

“Oh. Good.”

  


Apparently he locked his knees at some point to keep from collapsing. Thank fuck for that, and muscle memory, because he's honestly not sure if he has legs anymore.

She's still sitting on the railing. Right. That's. Not safe. His hands are still on her hips, so he can pull her forward, and her thighs drop from his waist. Oh good, at least he's not the only one with jelly legs, even if she's capable of standing on her own.

He leans heavily on the railing. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he tries to breathe while she runs her hands up and down his back.

Eventually he can support himself on one arm, the other around her, his head on her shoulder. 

  


_ Shit  _ she wasn't kidding about the mess, it looks like someone gutted a Rodian. 

  


He grunts softly, wincing when she carefully fixes his shorts, refastens his slacks as best she can, with the damage they did to them. His shirt is a lost cause, and she lets it hang open. His tie is still somehow knotted, just loose.

  


“We should get out of here,” she murmurs quietly, her lips soft against the side of his head.

He nods, reasonably certain she's not mad at him anymore, not the way she's purring like a spoiled lothcat.

“Think you can still pull off Plan Dorn, Captain?”

“Gimme a minute.”

“ _ A  _ minute?”

“... Maybe five.” 

  
_Light_ , he loves her laugh.   



End file.
